For No Miser's Sake
by kuliundheft
Summary: When a newcomer Below nearly kills one of the tunnel folk, Vincent struggles to find the right and wrong of the situation, both for the would-be murderer and for himself. Takes place five or so years before the TV series begins.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I have no rights to anything related to CBS's _Beauty and the Beast_ TV series. This is an entirely unauthorized work of fan fiction for which I receive no compensation, monetary or otherwise.

A/N: I recently watched BatB for the first time since I was a kid, and I absolutely fell in love with the world Below. Perhaps it's just that I'm older now, or perhaps it's that I've been tossed around by the economy and family situations the last few months, but the idea of such a place for lost souls resonated deeply in my own. The tunnel community takes on such a life of its own, and however idealistic it all is in the end, it's a beautiful dream, a reminder of greater possibilities. I suppose this fic is something of a tribute to those ideas, that dream. Take from it what you will. Thanks for sharing it with me.

**For No Miser's Sake**

Part I

Vincent found himself with too much empty time on his hands, too much time to think words and ideas that he would not chance to speech. Of course Father had commented on his brooding. Father had commented on everything, the disappearance of Vincent's cloak, the way his ventures Above had so suddenly ceased, the late, silent hours he had taken to wandering the corridors in the last few weeks. And none of it was enough to calm the worry in him, to erase the smell of blood mixing with sex or the panicked screaming in the dark.

He had taken more sentry shifts than usual to fill the hours. It was solitary work and left too much time for thinking, but it let him feel useful. It gave him some focus for his restlessness, and it gave him someplace to go that wasn't Above. His sentry shifts had been tapering off in the last year or so, as he took on more of Father's classes with the children, and he couldn't let himself grow complacent. He needed to protect the people and the place that had kept him safe for so long, the only sanctuary there could ever be for what he was. He needed to do his share for the people who gave him everything.

It was early on a Tuesday morning when he started a shift near one of the dockside entrances. Jonathan, their cobbler, passed the sentry staff to him, the changing of the guard.

"Been quiet," Jonathan said as he gathered up a pair of boots he'd been repairing in the sentry hidey-hole. Once his tools were cleared away, Vincent set down his lunch and books; after this shift and a lesson with the newest sentry recruits, he had two reading groups before supper that he needed to review for.

"Don't expect you'll see any traffic come daylight," Jonathan continued. "Say, is there any hot breakfast left?"

Vincent looked up from the books he'd just put down, and it took him a moment to catch up to Jonathan's expectant silence. "I don't know. William was still cooking when I had breakfast."

The cobbler frowned at him. "Are you all right? You've been a bit…spacey lately. Mind, you've always had your head in the clouds, but you've been worse lately."

"I'm fine," Vincent answered at his most reassuring.

"Right," Jonathan returned at his most disbelieving. "Well, keep sharp. Being Father's favorite won't keep intruders out."

Vincent said nothing as Jonathan slid out of the hidden alcove; the cobbler's barbs were nothing new, and nothing had ever come of taking them too seriously.

With the sentry staff in hand, Vincent set out to walk his first set of rounds, first to be sure that the secret entrance was secure, then through the surrounding tunnels to check that all was well. Maintaining the vast underground network was a constant dilemma for the Council and relied heavily on identifying leaks, cracks, and other hazards as early as possible. Part of it was to maintain structural integrity, but part of it was also the fear that any problem the topsiders noticed with their pipes or electrical lines or sewers could lead someone Below.

The air in the tunnel shifted; Vincent might not have noticed the fresh slice of February chill creeping down the corridor if he had had his cloak to protect him, but he knew the sharp smells of seawater and shoreline as soon as they drifted past him. He was adjacent to the tunnel that led to the secret entrance and the hidden sentry alcove, and when he looked around the corner, he saw someone peering into the outpost. When she pulled back, Vincent realized it was one of their Helpers, a tall, dark-haired woman called Jacqueline, and he nearly called out to her, but something in the way that she scanned the corridor and that she had appeared without a sound put him on edge. He watched as she disappeared back the way she had come, back toward Above, with silent footsteps.

He waited, and before long, she reappeared, guiding an unfamiliar man and two young girls, the eldest no more than twelve, who must have been sisters. If the man was their father, they must have taken after their mother; as much as they had straight, blonde hair and narrow faces, the man had coarse, brown hair and rounded features.

"We're in luck," said Jacqueline in a hushed voice. She brushed wiry, black hair out of her face. "The sentry must be on rounds. Come on, quickly."

Vincent drew back further, and they hurried past without noticing him. He waited before looking into the corridor and finding it completely empty. Back in the hideaway, he used his staff to tap out a message to Edward and Pascal: _Jacqueline Below with strangers. Suspicious. Toward Serpentine._ Almost immediately, Edward tapped back: _Understood._

Helpers and newcomers all found it hard to believe that those who had spent most of their lives Below could identify the people tapping on the pipes by minute idiosyncrasies in the code, but most messages were as good as spoken words to Vincent; he could identify nearly three dozen "voices." Pascal, of course, was the best of them, identifying not only the people who lived Below, but also every Helper, and he could identify the location of each on any of the commonly used pipes, just by the strength of the sound. Even Edward, his father, couldn't claim such uncanny accuracy, and Pascal's intuitive skill was a source of much pride for the both of them.

Vincent sat in perfect silence for several minutes before Sarah tapped: _Intruders spotted. Serpentine. High._ Edward acknowledged. Then he tapped: _V, How many?_ Vincent answered: _Jacqueline. Man._ _Girl._ _Girl._ Edward tapped back: _Understood. S, How many?_ Sarah's answer matched Vincent's. Edward acknowledged.

Vivian saw them next, leaving the Serpentine. Then Winslow's heavy-handed tapping said: _Will meet._ He followed it with the angry, sloppy sequence that the tunnel dwellers used as an all-purpose curse on the pipes.

The conversation ended there, and Vincent went to check that Jacqueline had secured the tunnel entrance.


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

The rest of Vincent's shift passed without incident or word from Below. Curiosity gnawed at him, but he knew better than to fill sentry pipes with idle chatter. He passed the hours with his books and his rounds. Speculation about the strangers and Jacqueline's odd behavior, as well as mental notes for his afternoon reading groups, kept his mind from drifting too far from the safety of the tunnels and the present moment, but he was relieved when he heard voices approaching.

"…isn't happy with Jackie," Kanin was saying as Vincent closed his book and gathered the remnants of his lunch together.

"But if they're really in danger," Jamie answered, "we have to help them. Father always says."

"Doesn't mean she didn't break a whole host of rules."

Vincent stepped out into the corridor to meet them.

"Jackie brought strangers into the tunnels without permission," Jamie blurted at once. "Did you see them?"

Vincent nodded. "Yes, they entered here."

"The Council's going to let them stay. There's some kind of danger, up Above, and Brian—that's the man—asked for sanctuary for him and his two daughters. But Father's pretty mad at Jackie."

Vincent passed the staff to Kanin. He looked up when he heard running footsteps, and Mouse rounded the corner. Mouse's face darkened when he saw Jamie.

"Supposed to _wait_ for Mouse," he informed her when he got to them.

"Well, Mouse was supposed to help Jamie clean up from lunch," she answered with matching acidity.

Mouse's indignation decayed into chagrin. "Forgot."

"So I guess I forgot to wait."

He ducked his head. "Okay. Sorry."

Jamie made a show of considering it, but she said, "Yeah, all right."

Mouse perked right back up. "Okay good. Okay fine." He reached into his pocket. "Anyway, brought you a thingy. From Above."

Jamie's efforts at indifference failed her, and she fell to looking at the bright plastic something-or-other with enthusiasm. It was a peculiarity of the mid-teens that Vincent had witnessed in most of the children he had watched grow, the way that they could switch from almost-adult to gleeful child in the space of a word, like even they weren't sure which they were at any moment.

"I wish my arguments with Livie got solved that easily," Kanin muttered.

Vincent smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

A moment later, Dominic and Joshua came up the corridor, both snickering over something conspiratorially. Like Jamie, they were each also sixteen or seventeen; so many children came to them not knowing, exactly, that guesses got made, and nearly half the children Below celebrated the day they first came to the tunnels in place of birthdays. Dominic was a dark-haired boy from a bad foster situation, and Joshua was a redhead that had been caught picking pockets on the subway by one of their Helpers. They joined the group in the corridor, sobering somewhat.

"Did you hear about the strangers Jackie brought down?" Joshua asked Vincent.

Jamie turned her attention from Mouse. "They used this entrance. Vincent's the one who raised the alarm."

"Father was still yelling at Jackie when we left," Dominic said.

"Then it's good they'll have some privacy to continue their conversation," Vincent answered with mild admonishment.

Joshua snorted indelicately. "Not likely. Half the kids over ten are—" he caught Vincent's disapproving look and cut himself off. "Um."

Vincent let the silence draw on for another awkward second before he surveyed the group. "We're all ready, then?"

He led the four teenagers back down the way they had come, to the Serpentine. In a chamber midway down, the tunnel folk had set up a training room of sorts, with spare sentry staffs and padded vests lining one wall. The rest of the chamber was empty, perfect for sparring, and they kept a good few inches of loose sand on the ground to take the edge off of falls.

Everyone suited up in mismatched pads and grabbed a staff.

Vincent looked them over. "So, first rule of being a sentry?"

"No heroics," all four chorused.

"Good. When you're on duty, you're the eyes and ears of the community. But our strength is in our unity, our communications, and our knowledge of the tunnels. Think about how many ways you know from here to Father's chamber that no intruder could ever find. Fighting alone must always be your last resort. Now, drills."

Vincent took them through practiced drills of strikes and blocks. Joshua and Dominic both took to the training with the sloppy alacrity of boys their age; they were full of power and enthusiasm, but they lacked control and finesse. Mouse, as he had always been, was a power unto himself, having an advantage in sheer unpredictability, but a gross disadvantage in his habit of shutting down when charged. Vincent tried to encourage the instincts that had made Mouse so good at running away as a child as subtly as he could, for fear of what would happen if the young man tried to engage anyone in real combat. Jamie was the most serious student; she had found herself easily overpowered in the beginning, but had since made up for it with speed and technique. Vincent found himself pushing her more than the others because she responded to the challenge, and because there was something about being beaten by a young woman that focused the minds of young men in any kind of combat. Well, except Mouse.

He led them through sparring next, each fighting the other three in five point bouts, no head shots. Jamie emerged as the undisputed victor, as she had every lesson for nearly three weeks, though Dominic looked like he was starting to break down some of her attacks. Vincent gave it another week before he surprised Jamie with a victory and upped the ante.

Newly dispatched, Joshua went to stand with Mouse and Dominic, while Jamie remained in the center of the room, her face red and sweaty. She leaned on her staff to catch her breath while Vincent picked up a staff of his own and gave it a few practice swings.

He never lost his control with a staff; the foreign weight of a blunt object curbed his desire to slash and throttle almost completely, and the weapon became a tool like a fork or a pen. He certainly wasn't the best of the sentries at this kind of combat; he taught the beginners because he was good at teaching. And he knew that if push ever came to shove, he'd forget the staff altogether and tear into his adversary the way that instinct dictated. The way that instinct had dictated.

"Okay," Jamie said. "I'm ready."

Vincent emerged from dark memories and focused on the situation at hand. He was Below, safe. All was right with the world.

He placed himself opposite Jamie. "Watch your footwork. And don't swing so wide that it compromises your balance."

She nodded, her face setting in determination.

"Director? Dominic?"

Dominic stepped forward. "Sentries ready? Fight."

Vincent held back to give her room to attack, but she knew better than to take the opening at face value. She feinted right and tried to catch him with an upward swing on the left, but he wasn't there to be caught. They pushed back and forth, Vincent attacking more to test her defense than to score, but she left herself open, and she grunted when he tagged her just under the ribs.

"Halt," Dominic said. "Touch, Vincent. One-zero."

Jamie took a moment to catch her breath and rub out her side before she reset her defensive stance.

"Sentries ready? Fight."

Jamie led with the same feint as before, but as he blocked the upward swing on the left, she turned the strike into a lunge, sliding just past his own staff and striking him under the sternum with the straight end of her staff. He staggered backward a couple of steps as Dominic called a halt and Joshua whooped.

"Are you all right?" Jamie asked. "I didn't think that'd work."

Vincent nodded. After a moment, he regained his breath. "That was good." He cleared his throat, trying to get control back over his voice. "Well done." There, that came out better. He reset his stance.

"Touch, Jamie. One-one. Sentries ready? Fight."

Jamie tried a new charge, but Vincent rebuffed it with sheer strength. They circled. Jamie tried to come in from overhead, but their height difference made that ineffectual. Vincent responded by pressing a series of attacks that didn't give Jamie any time to get clever. Even though he kept from using his full strength against her, she had learned that her best defense against someone his size was to simply not be there when he struck. But moving her entire body took more time and energy than blocking, and she risked her footing the more he pressed.

"Balance," he cautioned.

She grunted in acknowledgement. He could see her frustration. Finally, she swept her staff wide to knock out his right knee, and he took advantage of the momentum she had to put behind the strike; he blocked, struck left, and then just pushed against her staff. She stumbled backward and fell on her rump.

"Halt," said Dominic.

Vincent stepped forward, his hand out to help her up. She grabbed it and had just begun to trust her weight to his arm when he heard running footsteps, felt a threat, saw the glint of a blade. He turned to face the attack, the stranger from earlier rushing him with a long knife, but Jamie's half-supported weight pulled him off balance; he dodged the first swipe of the blade, but he stumbled over Jamie's feet, and they both fell into the sand. Jamie landed flat on her back, knocking the air out of her lungs.

Their attacker took quick advantage of the situation and swung down viciously with his knife. Vincent's feet were still tangled with Jamie's, and he was reduced to lurching forward and grabbing the attacker's wrist. Matching the other man's power was doable enough, even at this bad angle, but Vincent had to give Jamie time to get out of the line of fire, and his crouch was more than simply awkward in the soft sand.

"Jamie? Jamie, _go_!"

In his distraction, Vincent didn't see the other man switch his knife to his left hand until the point of it bit deep into the flesh of his forearm. Vincent roared and lashed out, but his attacker leapt back. Jamie pulled her feet away from him, but she kicked his in the process, throwing off what weak threads of balance he had, and he fell onto his side, even as the stranger rushed forward again. Jamie shouted, and Vincent tried to shift to a more defensible position and, barring that, brace himself against the pain of another knifing, but then there was someone between him and his attacker; the stranger's lunge came up short, but Mouse crumpled to the ground with a whimper.

Absolute silence reigned in the chamber for a pair of heartbeats; Vincent watched Mouse on his knees, arms clutched around his middle and head bowed. As his body slumped down further, Vincent surged to his feet, leapt over Mouse, and had his attacker by the throat against the stone wall by the time he had drawn enough breath to roar. The knife clattered to the ground as Vincent stared into terrified brown eyes, bore his teeth and screamed his rage inches from a pale, trembling face. He felt the man's rapid pulse in his neck and leaned closer still, reveling in the feel of fear and helplessness from his adversary as he snarled.

"Vincent!" A hand landed on his arm, breaking the dark spell, and he turned to stare into Jamie's worried eyes. "You've got to help Mouse."

His grip on their attacker didn't abate as he looked over his shoulder at Mouse, on his side on the ground, his face tight with pain, his hands red and wet over the wound in his side.

He heard a high sob then, and looked the other way at the two blonde girls he had seen earlier, both faces ashen and tear-streaked as they looked on from the doorway to the corridor.

With a grunt, Vincent swung the man around and tossed him to the ground near Joshua and Dominic's feet. "Take him up to Father's chamber. Take them all."

The young men scrambled to pull the man to his feet by each arm.

The youngest girl whimpered, and Vincent spared what mercy he had in the fury, fear, and shame swirling inside of him. "See to it that no one comes to further harm."

He assured himself that they were on their way before he dropped down next to Mouse, across from Jamie. She had her hand in Mouse's hair. She stared up at Vincent.

"Go to Father," he told her. "Tell him what's happened here. I'll take Mouse to the hospital chamber."

Jamie nodded, her eyes bright. She looked down at Mouse. "You're going to be just fine. Father'll sew you up." Her voice threatened to break, but she swallowed and put on a watery smile. "You'll see."

"O…okay, good," Mouse answered with something that might have been a smile, but was too full of pain. "Okay, fine."

Jamie up and bolted from the chamber then. Vincent smoothed Mouse's hair back from his face.

"Hurts," Mouse said.

"I know. But you have to let me see the wound."

Mouse winced, and his palms came away red and glistening. There was little for Vincent to see besides a ragged slice through layers of blood-soaked clothing. A lot of blood.

Vincent took a quick survey of what he had on hand shrugged out of the padded tunic he wore to get at his undamaged shirt sleeve. The knife wound in his arm stretched and ached as he tore the sleeve off of his outer shirt, and the pain made his fingers weak, but he rolled the fabric and pressed it against Mouse's side. Mouse gasped and clutched at Vincent's shoulder with one bloody hand.

"Put pressure on this." Vincent took each of Mouse's wrists and laid his hands over the fabric. "I'm going to take you up to the hospital chamber. Keep the pressure on the wound. That's your job, the whole way."

Mouse nodded, his teeth clenched tight. He grunted as Vincent picked him up off the ground and stood.

"Lucky Mouse." He tried to smile again. "No one faster than Vincent."

Vincent didn't answer; he started the smoothest jog he could manage up through the tunnels.


	3. Chapter 3

Part III

With Mouse bleeding his grasp, Vincent ran out of the training room and overtook Dominic and Joshua and the strangers within a minute.

"Move aside!" he called ahead, and everyone immediately flattened themselves against the tunnel wall as he rushed past them.

He was nearly halfway when he heard the emergency message for Father go out over the pipes. A digging crew dodged out of his way and watched him pass with wide eyes as he made his way from the outer chambers toward the innermost chambers. The call went out just ahead of him as he threaded his way through the most populated corridors.

And finally, finally, he made it into the hospital chamber. He startled Mary, who was taking care of scraped elbows and knees.

"Vincent! I heard the message on the pipes. What—?"

"He has a knife wound. In his side." He laid Mouse out on a surgical table and paused for a moment to take a few gasping breaths. His arm throbbed in time to his hammering pulse, but he tried to put it out of his mind.

"A knife wound?" Mary asked. She looked down at Mouse. "Oh! But—how? Who?"

Vincent shook his head. "Strangers." He reached out to take Mouse's hands away from the cloth he'd put over the wound, but the hands were limp now. "Mouse? Mouse?"

He got no answer; Mouse's eyes were closed, his jaw slack.

"It's a lot of blood," Mary warbled. "Vincent, your arm!"

Vincent placed Mouse's hands at his sides and took the cloth away, throwing it into a bin. He took up a pair of scissors and started cutting away Mouse's clothes. "Father will need his instruments. Thread for sutures. Gloves."

"Oh. Oh, yes, of course." She got to work setting up the area for surgery.

Vincent was tearing through Mouse's undershirt when he heard Jamie's high, frantic voice outside. She and Father entered a moment later. He issued orders, which Mary followed in a practiced rhythm while Vincent and Jamie stood on the side and looked on.

After Father had scrubbed up and had a good look at the wound, Vincent could see from his eyes, tell from the worry flowing off of him, that this was going to be a difficult procedure. It was only when he found Father's gaze on him that Vincent realized he had been pacing. He stopped, ignoring the way his muscles tensed up along his limbs, almost trembling with the need for release.

"Mouse will need blood," Father said. "Jamie, help Vincent find the most suited donors. The records are in my chamber."

"Is he going to be okay?" Jamie asked.

"The sooner he gets blood, the better his chances," Father answered.

"But—"

Vincent laid a hand on her shoulder. She cut her protests short and nodded, setting her jaw. She turned and led the way out of the hospital chamber.

The journey to Father's chamber was a matter of quick strides down a single tunnel. Jamie blundered straight in, Vincent directly behind, but they both stopped short at a young girl's squeal of terror; the three strangers sat at Father's chess table, flanked by Dominic and Joshua, and the youngest girl cowered in her father's lap, her eyes riveted to Vincent's face and full of tears. Her big sister and her father drew closer together, gaining a few inches further away from _him_.

And his desperate impulse to turn away, to shroud himself in cloak and shadow, mixed badly with the potent safety of Father's chamber and the candlelit comfort of _home_. It left Vincent with a feeling in his guts like he'd swallowed hot lead. He had never felt the need to secret himself away _here_. He had never been that dark, scuttling intruder among _these_ walls.

Winslow and Pascal looked up from where they're been talking in low tones by the spiral staircase, and the uneasy silence expanded into every corner, every breath, in the room.

"Just ignore them, Vincent," Jamie said, her voice harsh and high in the tension of the moment. "They're not worth it. Isn't that what Father's always saying?"

"How is he?" Pascal blurted as Winslow asked, "Mouse?"

Vincent pulled his gaze away from the strangers, finding worry in the faces of his family. Focusing on them pulled his world a little closer to right-side-out.

"We don't know yet. We've come to find suitable blood donors."

Silence threatened to overwhelm them all again, but the memory of his task, of the precious minutes they were wasting, minutes Mouse might not have to dally, spurred Vincent's strides toward the drawer that held Father's medical records, Jamie at his heels.

Pascal crossed the room to them. "Vincent, your arm—"

He looked down at it, at the wide stain of blood drifting downward from the jagged tear in his shirt sleeves. Its throb had become background noise, and he preferred it to stay that way.

"It's fine," he answered. But as he reached for the records, he realized he had blood, Mouse's blood, smudged on his palms, streaked over his fingers, dotting the hair on the backs of his hands. His lip curled in frustration, anguish, but he stifled the growl before it could escape his throat.

"Dominic, fetch Father's basin and the water," Pascal ordered. "A towel."

The young man obeyed, leaving his staff aside, and a moment later he scurried to Vincent's side with the necessary items. Vincent cleaned the blood off of his hands, and the familiarity of it made him sick, made the hot lead in his stomach turn cold and solid, and he struggled to keep his face impassive under the silent gazes of those around him. He only realized he'd stopped to stare into the pinkish water for too long, thinking of minute plumes of red in the Mirror Pool, when Pascal's hand touched his shoulder.

"He's going to be fine," Pascal told him, his voice heavy with a compassion that shamed Vincent for his loss of focus, for allowing his mind to drift from the task he'd been given, from Mouse's need. "Father will see to it."

Dominic held out the towel solemnly, and their camaraderie, their sympathy was all almost too much to bear. If they only _knew_—

"Mouse is O-positive. That's good, right? Common?" Jamie said, holding his file in hand. Clipped to the front of every tunnel dweller's medical file, a slip of paper listed vital statistics; sex, height, weight, blood type, date of last exam, et cetera. With no facilities to maintain reliable blood stores, the slips made it possible for anyone to find possible donors quickly and without delving into the personal information inside the folders.

While Vincent used the worn terrycloth on his hands to soothe his thoughts, the pain in his arm to ground himself, Jamie started the hunt for other O-positive files. She stacked them for him to examine, though some he could discard out of hand; Alexander was too old, Melissa was pregnant, Joan had left the tunnels nearly a year ago. The ones that he couldn't easily dismiss, he opened and examined. There were only a few people in the community allowed into the medical files, and somehow, Vincent had always been one of them, for no obvious or official reason, except perhaps his constancy at Father's side when turmoil and tragedy visited.

Jonathan, Sarah, and Vivian charged into the chamber then. They stopped at the sight of the strangers; they met the grim gazes of their fellows.

"It's true, then?" Jonathan demanded.

Vincent kept his back to them; he couldn't afford any more distraction, but he registered Jamie turning away from the files.

"Mouse?" Sarah asked.

"We don't know yet," Winslow said.

"Well, what happened?" Vivian asked. "The strangers—"

"We don't know exactly what happened, yet," Winslow answered pointedly.

"Yes, we do," Jamie countered. "We were all there. The stranger stabbed Vincent, and then Mouse."

"Vincent doesn't look any worse for wear," Jonathan observed. "He couldn't stop one man with a knife?"

Vincent bowed his head over the file he was trying so hard to read, to search for anything that would exclude Cullen from giving blood.

"And what kind of talk is that, Jonathan?" Winslow demanded, his tone full of warning.

"There wasn't any warning, or any _reason_. The topsider just went crazy," Jamie said.

Winslow held up a hand. "Hush, Jamie. That isn't helping, either."

"You didn't see him," she pressed. "You didn't see how it _was_. He stabbed Mouse, and I don't even know if he's okay!"

Pascal laid a hand on her shoulder. "We're all worried about him, Jamie."

But Jamie wasn't finished. "The only reason _he_ got as close as he did is because Vincent was busy trying to get me out of the way." She looked at Brian. "Vincent'd have taken your arm right off, otherwise."

Vincent bowed his head lower over the medical records. "Jamie…"

"Now that is _enough_," Winslow boomed. "If you can't keep that mouth of yours under control, I'll send you out to the furthest sentry point I can think of until you _cool off_."

Jamie glared mutinously, but she kept her peace. Pascal shook her shoulder comfortingly before letting go. When she met Vincent's gaze, the hurt and fire in her drained away, and she lowered her eyes in silent apology.

They went back to their task without another word on the subject, and within twenty minutes, they had the names of five people with a suitable blood type, who were in good health, and who would likely be nearby. Pascal offered to put the call over the pipes.

Back in the hospital chamber, with Mary quizzing the prospective donors, Vincent sank down into a chair to wait. He listened to the drone of voices beyond the screens; Father sounded calm, but then he always did when he was doctoring. He fell into the pattern of complex technique and precise timing with confidence and not a small measure of faith. Anyway, the words and voices were floating and detached in Vincent's head. He couldn't focus on any of them; he had too many of his own thoughts warring for dominance in him to take on more.

He dropped his forehead into one hand and let his mind drift, too tired and too full of fear and guilt and anger to do anything else. With nothing else to occupy him, the throbbing ache in his arm became impossible to ignore, but it also anchored him to the present moment and everything that had happened.

He looked up when Jamie sat down on the bed next to him with bandages and scissors in one hand, a bowl in the other, and a cloth draped over one shoulder.

"Let me see your arm," she said.

"Jamie, you don't have to—"

"I want to," she answered at once. "There's no telling how long Father will be with Mouse."

The pain of the uncertainty went unspoken between them.

"Besides," she continued. "It's my fault you couldn't stop him."

Vincent met her gaze steadily. "Jamie, none of this is your fault."

"You couldn't fight back because you were helping me. And then I made you fall."

"There isn't anything you could have done differently. Don't blame yourself for what other people have done."

"I wanted to get out of your way. I wanted to stop him myself. Mouse shouldn't have—he's no good at fighting, but _I_ could have—"

"Jamie, you did everything you could in those moments."

"It wasn't enough. It wasn't anything like enough."

He touched her hair with his good hand. "It was everything, in that moment. And there's no changing it now."

She looked away, and he dropped his hand. After a moment, she nodded, suddenly all business. "All right. Doesn't mean your arm doesn't need to be looked at until Father can stitch it. Give it here."

With gentle amusement that turned into a wince, he lifted his arm. She cut away the layers of his sleeves and apologized when she pulled the fabric away; his blood had dried the shirt to the thick hair underneath, and it pulled the sensitive skin. With the towel and the bowl of antiseptic, she dabbed blood away. It still burned and it still ached, but Vincent did his best to keep still and let her work. It was no small relief when she finally laid a bandage over his arm and wrapped it all in gauze. As inexperienced as her hands were, they were gentle and thorough, and it would hold until Father could attend to it. Anyway, there was always something about having a wound cleaned and bandaged that made it more tolerable.

Once she was finished, Jamie gathered everything she had used and set about cleaning it all. Then she came back to sit on the bed and share his silent vigil.

After some long while that could have been minutes or an hour, Jamie looked up at Vincent. "He's going to be all right, isn't he? Father can fix this?"

"I don't know," Vincent answered. He didn't meet her gaze. "We got him here quickly. He'll have blood. He's young, strong. We can only wait. And hope."

"Can't believe Jackie brought them all down here," Jamie said. "The whole point of Below is to keep that kind of topsider poison _Above_. She knows that. Everyone knows that."

"The point of Below is to heal the damage caused by the world Above," Vincent countered.

She subsided, and they went back to their silent vigil for several minutes until she spoke again. "Jonathan was wrong to say what he said."

He looked at her, but he had no words to offer, either in agreement or denial.

She looked down at her own hands. "And I'm sorry. For what I said earlier. I know it bothered you. I know I shouldn't have. I was so _angry_. But I'm really sorry."

A droplet flashed in the lantern light, disappeared into her lap, and Vincent realized she was hiding her tears from him. He reached out with his good hand and touched the top of her head, the side of her face. She resisted looking up, but her shoulders began to shake.

"Jamie…"

She lurched forward then, and he gathered her close, rested his head on top of hers. Her fingers curled in the frayed fabric where he'd pulled his sleeve from its stitching, and he let her cry into his shoulder, offered soft words of comfort. Part of him wondered that she could find any solace in his embrace at all after she'd seen him so close to the edge, when she _knew_ what he might have done, if she hadn't stopped him. But her grief, her fear, her confusion flowed freely, and he was grateful that he could ease her thoughts by any margin. After some few minutes, the shaking of her sobs eased, but she lingered, letting her breathing slow. When she gathered herself to pull away, he dropped a fraternal kiss into her hair and released her.

She sat back, wiping her eyes on the cuffs of her sleeves, dropping at least six years from her real age for a few moments. She looked toward Father and Mary, watched the bits of motion discernable through the screens, listened to the words exchanged, before she shook her head.

"I can't just sit in here. I have to…I'm gonna go back to Father's chamber." At his look, she hastened to add, "I'm not gonna cause any more trouble, I promise. I just…I can't sit in here anymore. You'll come tell us, as soon as there's news, won't you?"

"Of course."

She gave him a weak smile and got up. He watched her go and then settled back in the chair to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Part IV

More people had gathered in Father's chamber as the news of the attack spread; Vincent could hear the buzz of their conversation from the corridor, could feel their apprehension and anger as he stepped through the doorway. He stood at the top of the steps, but didn't descend, and it only took a moment or two for everyone to notice him and quiet down.

"Well?" Winslow said when no one else volunteered to speak.

"The danger has passed," Vincent said, and even Brian sighed in relief. "Father is finishing the last of the stitches now. There should be no lasting damage."

"Can I see him now?" Jamie asked from where she'd been talking to Joshua.

"He's still asleep. But you should be able to sit with him."

She nodded and darted past him.

"Father and Mary will be finished with Mouse soon." He looked at Winslow and Pascal. "They're calling the Council to meet as soon as they're finished."

"I'll get my father," Pascal said, but he lingered.

"Joshua, Dominic," Vincent said, "Father will want to hear what you saw."

Both young men nodded where they stood together, their staffs still in hand.

Vincent looked back into the room, but no one met his gaze. The silence drew on. The newcomers kept their eyes and their heads down. Winslow and Pascal shared a look. Vivian looked him over with a sour turn to the corner of her mouth. Had Jonathan's discord spread, then? With the crisis past, would they blame him for Mouse's injuries, for not doing more to protect his charges?

Pascal drew close to him then and spoke quietly, "Vincent, perhaps you should go and wash up."

Vincent stared at him blankly.

"You look like hell. And you still have Mouse's blood on you," Pascal explained in the same hushed tones. "It's a little unsettling."

Vincent looked down at himself and found the gruesome palm print on his shoulder, turned brown and dull with the hours. He remembered the moment it was pressed to the fabric of his shirt with a gasp of pain and wide, suffering eyes.

He looked away from it.

Pascal laid a hand on his clean shoulder. "You got him to Father in time. He's going to be all right. Focus on that."

Vincent touched Pascal's shoulder briefly before nodding and ducking out to wash and change. He chided himself for overreacting to the silent stares he'd met; the palpability of the strangers' fear in his father's chamber was getting to him, clearly. This was his home, these were his family; he tried to let that thought outweigh the gross incongruity of the attack. He tried to take refuge in the love and acceptance everyone here had always given him, that he might hide away where the cold facts that separated him from every other living soul wouldn't find him.

By the time he returned, Father's chamber was half full with people who had heard the news; Vincent heard anger and fear in the murmuring that escaped out into the corridor, louder than before. He walked in and took stock of the situation; tunnel folk lined the walls, forming a loose ring around the strangers. The youngest girl was still curled in her father's lap, her back to the hostility around her, her face in her father's shoulder. The elder girl sat in another chair pulled close so she could lean against her father, who had wrapped one tight arm around each girl. He stared up at Vincent as though he were some waking nightmare. Vincent looked away from them.

He spied Winslow talking with William and a few others and keeping a wary eye on their captives. After a few moments, the others began to notice him, and the murmuring dropped off. He stepped up to the top of the stairs.

"Is Mouse really going to be okay?" Olivia called from the back.

"Yes. Father was able to stop the bleeding. Mouse should heal well."

"What happened?" Vivian demanded. "Jamie says the strangers did this."

An angry cry passed through the gathered tunnel dwellers. The strangers drew still closer together, shrinking in on themselves as one unit.

"One stranger did this," Vincent told her, told everyone. "The children had nothing to do with it."

Vivian and a few of the others had the good grace to look a little chagrined.

Vincent looked around the room again, at all the eyes trained on him. There was still volatility in the gathered crowd, kindling waiting for a match.

"This is a difficult matter," he said. It wasn't his place to dictate how things should proceed, but he could put his voice to the obvious problem and hope for a promising result. "The Council will need peace to discuss it."

"That man stabbed Mouse. And you. How difficult can it be?" William demanded to a chorus of agreements.

"More than that," Winslow said. "Vincent's right. The Council has a lot to talk about, and we're all already upset enough. This will be a closed session. If you weren't there when it happened, clear out."

There were general protests, but it didn't take Winslow long to get everyone moving, and Vincent relaxed slightly.

He descended the steps then, looking again at the strangers as the man kissed the top of his eldest daughter's head and whispered to her, even while his eyes roamed the dispersing crowd warily. Vincent caught Olivia by the elbow as she moved past him.

"Olivia, the children don't need to stay for this." He nodded to the two blonde girls. "Can you make them comfortable while the Council makes their decision?"

She looked at them, less than enthusiastically, but she nodded.

They approached the strangers; the man's gaze homed in on Vincent's face and didn't shift. Vincent met it as he stayed at Olivia's side.

"Hi. My name's Olivia. What are your names?"

Both girls looked up at their father, but he didn't show any sign of noticing.

"I'm Melody," said the eldest. "This is Andrea. What's going on? What's going to happen?"

"That's what the Council is going to decide. But it's going to take some time. You and your sister should come get some supper."

The man noticed the conversation for the first time and looked up at Olivia, even as his grip on his daughter tightened. "You're gonna take my kids away?"

"Olivia won't take them far," Vincent said. "But the day has been hard enough on them."

"I don't want to go anywhere without Dad," Melody said. She glared up at Vincent. "He didn't mean to hurt the boy."

"Does that mean he meant to hurt Vincent?" Olivia countered.

The girl scowled, but she dropped her eyes.

"It's all right, Mel," said the man. He returned his gaze to Vincent, even as he spoke to his daughter. "Take Andy and get something to eat while I handle this."

"But Dad—"

He looked down at her then, with something like a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about me, kiddo. Now no more arguments. You two will just be bored with all of this, anyway."

Father and daughter held each others' gazes for a moment before Melody nodded. She shuffled out of the chair and took her sister's hand. They made it two steps with heads held high before Melody turned back and threw her arms around her father. He held her fast and dropped kisses into her hair. After a moment, he pulled back.

"Now you two be good." He put a hand on each head. "I'll come find you when we're done here."

"What's going to happen?" Melody whispered.

"I don't know. But don't worry about it. It's not your job to worry, remember? Your job is to watch out for each other and make your old man proud."

Melody nodded, her eyes bright. He kissed them each on the forehead and sent them off with Olivia.

"They'll be safe," Vincent said; whatever else he felt about this man or the trouble he had brought to them, a father's worry for his children was a hard thing to ignore.

The man nodded, watching them disappear into the corridor. Then he met Vincent's gaze again, his expression hardening. "Their old man, though, that's another story altogether, eh?"

"We'll see," Vincent answered.

He turned to speak with Winslow, but stopped when the stranger said, "What are you?"

Vincent turned his head to meet the his gaze, but he decided not to answer. Instead, he crossed the room to stand close to Winslow.

"All right. What _happened_?" Winslow asked quietly.

Vincent took him through the events as he remembered them, getting to his own helplessness on the training room floor before Winslow spoke.

"That's when Mouse stepped in front of this man?"

Vincent nodded.

"What is wrong with that boy?" Winslow asked. "He's got a big damn stick in his hands, and he still gets himself nearly killed in a matter of seconds. What kind of sentry is he going to make?"

"I imagine things didn't happen the way he wanted them to."

Winslow snorted. "Boy's just lucky you run as fast as you do, I'll tell you that."

Vincent nodded toward the man. "Who is he?"

"Brian Kessler. There's some kind of trouble his wife got into. She worked accounting for one of the big warehouses down on the docks. I guess the numbers didn't add up, and she discovered one of them was smuggling something, probably drugs. They killed her. Brian went to the police with his suspicions about her death, and that's when him and the girls became a target. Jacqueline felt that there wasn't time for the usual procedures. I've half a mind to throttle the woman next time I see her."

"But you believe the danger Above is real?"

Winslow looked him up and down the way he did when he thought Vincent's quest for truth and justice had drifted into madness, but he nodded. "No reason to think it's not. Jackie's the worst kinda' fool, bringing those three down on us, but she knows trouble when she sees it."

A few minutes later, Father and Mary entered the chamber, both looking gray and tired, but resolute. Jamie trailed behind them a moment or two later. Winslow shifted Brian to a chair in the middle of the room, to give the Council space to sit in their accustomed places. By the time Pascal helped Edward shuffle in, everyone was settled and ready to get this all over with.

Pascal lowered his father into an armchair, and the sight of the old pipemaster's trembling legs stirred melancholy in Vincent; Edward had always been a steadfast figure in his life, in the lives of everyone Below, full of vitality and quick, cutting wit. But he had been well into his forties when Pascal was born, and now his strength was failing him. His mind and his tongue were still sharp, but there could be no denying what was coming. Vincent saw it in Pascal's face as he checked that his father didn't need anything more, the way his fingers lingered on his father's arm.

"I'm fine, lad, quit your clucking," Edward admonished, but his hand covered his son's for a moment, silently tender, silently grateful.

Pascal nodded and made for the stairs, but Edward called him back. "You ought to stay for this, might learn something you need later."

Pascal glanced around, but no one offered any objection; he had been his father's proxy in Council more and more over the last year, and so far he was favored against William to take Edward's position in the vote the tunnel folk had scheduled for the next common meeting. Still, he shook his head. "I can't leave the pipes."

He ducked out of the chamber then, and everyone settled down to the grim business before them.

Father cleared his throat and regarded Brian over his glasses with poorly disguised ire. "Mister Kessler. Do you understand why we're gathered here? Again?"

Brian nodded.

"Very well. Let's begin. We'll hear everyone's version of what happened. Joshua, we'll start with you."

Joshua told the Council about the sudden attack, the way it happened so quickly he wasn't even sure exactly what had happened first, second, and third. It was strange, because Vincent's memory of each moment was so exact, so clear, the sequence perfectly linear in his mind, from the first intruding footstep to the moment he relinquished control of Mouse's fate to Father.

Dominic went next, his narration only slightly more coherent. When he was finished, he looked at Vincent. "I should have done something. I know I should have. It was just so quick—"

"I'm glad you stayed at a safe distance," Vincent answered firmly.

He looked in no way satisfied, but he took the hint and didn't argue further.

Jamie spoke next, her narration spirited and accusing, but Winslow's dark looks kept her in check. Vincent watched Father's face, the way his mouth turned further downward with each new telling, the way the habitual kindness in his eyes gave way to smoldering anger.

When he was called upon, Vincent kept his report factual and concise, but the facts did nothing to ease the tension mounting against the stranger in their midst. The attack _had_ been unprovoked. Lives _had_ been put in danger by this man. Blood _had_ been spilled. One boy _had_ very nearly paid too dearly.

Finally, Brian himself was called on to give testimony, and his shoulders bowed under the weight of their collective scrutiny.

He stood and glanced around, but he didn't meet any of the cold eyes trained on him. "We got lost," he said. "A-after Jackie left, Andy ran away from us. I think she was scared. I think she wanted to go back to the city. Um, Above. And Mel and me went to go find her. And we did, but she looked so scared. Like she'd seen something. Crying and everything. And she said, um," he paused. He looked at Vincent for a moment before looking again at the Council, at his hands, at a stack of books to his right. He swallowed and pushed the words out. "She said monsters lived in these caves. And I told her that was ridiculous, that we would be safe here, but she was so frightened. She said she'd seen one, and it was going to eat another girl, and I had to save her."

Vincent had suspected, feared. There was no other explanation for the attack, made without warning but with a clear target. The man before them showed no signs of being a threat otherwise; his love for his daughters and his fear of this new place, these new people, were both honest. No, the strange fierceness of Vincent's face had to be the root cause of all of this, the reason Mouse—

"Is she stupid, or something?" Joshua demanded, his voice brash and obscene against Vincent's disquiet.

Jamie and Dominic failed to hide their snorting laughs, but all three quieted under disapproving looks from their elders.

"Please ignore our own numpties, Mister Kessler," Edward growled. "Go on."

"S-so I went to look. Andy was so insistent, and I thought I'd find a dog or something, and I could explain that everything was all right. Only, I didn't." He looked at the Council now, beseeching. "I couldn't _tell_ it was just training. The girl got pushed down, and I reacted." He looked at Jamie. "You look a little like my Mel. What else could I have done?" He looked at the Council, raising his chin against them and narrowing his eyes. "And you all could have warned a man with two daughters, you know? What the hell else do you have walking around down here? Bigfoot? Frankenstein's monster?"

Vincent ignored the way that most of the eyes in the room shifted in his direction, like they were afraid of his reaction. He dropped his gaze away from theirs, grateful at least that the burning in his face did not show through on his skin. _Bigfoot_, savage creature with the size and gait of a man but the howl and hair of a beast. _Frankenstein's monster_, mismatched and so repellent, so unspeakably wrong, that men craved nothing except his obliteration from their world. The truth of what outsiders, topsiders, saw in him at first glance.

Edward broke the silence, his tone frigid and cutting. "Admittedly, we assumed the lot of you could make it to supper without putting any of us in hospital. It was, indeed, a gross oversight on our part."

Brian's brief ferocity wilted under the ice in these words. He sank back into his chair and put his face in one hand. "I didn't mean to hurt anybody," he said.

"Vincent _is_ somebody," Jamie answered, and none of the Council begrudged her the outburst. "He's family."

Brian looked up at her. "I thought you were in danger. I was trying to _help_ you."

"Then how did Mouse get stabbed?" she demanded.

"The boy." Brian scrubbed his face with one hand, as though he could wipe the horror of the memory away. "He was just _there_. I was moving, and then he was there, and I couldn't stop. I tried to stop. I didn't want to hurt him. I—I felt the knife go in, and—oh, God." He looked away, tried to hide his face away, and Vincent understood the break in his voice so deeply that he nearly reached out to him.

No one spoke.

After untold ticks of the old wall clock, Brian found some measure of composure and addressed the Council. "I'm sorry, all right? I can't do anything else, except be sorry. Just let us go. Please. We'll forget this place even exists. We'll forget today ever happened. We couldn't find our way down here again if we tried. Just let us go."

The four Councilors exchanged looks and murmurs. Father addressed the witnesses at large. "What's happened to this knife?"

"I think it's still in the training room," Jamie said. "The topsider dropped it when Vincent grabbed him."

Father nodded. "Joshua, Dominic, I'd like you to go down and fetch the knife. Jamie, someone should sit with Mouse until Mary and I are finished here."

All three knew when they were being gotten rid of, but they had their tasks, and they took to them without complaint.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: So, I've gotten several inquiries about the Cullen remark in regards to his giving blood in Part III, which leads me to assume that there are lurkers wondering about it, too. Truth is, that was just a badly wrought sentence. Cullen's name got dropped in as a matter of convenience; it was too tempting (and easy) to suggest that he may have given Mouse blood in the past, given what happens in _Fever_, and I needed something detailed for Vincent to be trying to focus on in that particular scene, as he was determined to ignore Jonathan. It didn't even occur to me that it could be read as Vincent purposely trying to exclude him until Carole W broke it out for me to read out of context. Oops! So that's it. No big mystery there, I'm afraid—though, it does sound like the sort of thing that could totally work in a fic. Hm….

Anyway, before I completely lose the plot, here's Part V. Enjoy!

Part V

As with the medical records, Vincent was extended a tacit permission to remain while the Council discussed their options, so he listened and tried not to pace.

Winslow opened the debate with rough tones. "I suppose you're all gonna tell me it's not our way to give this man a good thumping for what he's done."

"It isn't," Mary answered, but neither Father nor Edward offered verbal protest.

"Rules can always be changed," Winslow said.

All four seemed to consider this, until Edward shook his head. "But it isn't our way," he said with clear reluctance.

"We'd all feel better for it," Winslow groused, but Vincent could see he was giving up the idea.

Edward sighed. "Aye. But the question is, what _should_ we do, not what would we like to do. Jacob?"

Father roused himself with a little questioning hum before his expression focused. "Clearly, Mister Kessler cannot be allowed to remain among us."

Mary and Winslow nodded. Edward considered Brian, his lips pursed into a tight, thin line. He looked up at Vincent before he conceded with his own nod.

"Then the only concern is how we will remove Mister Kessler and his children so that they cannot return," Father said.

"Don't worry," Brian put in. "We won't."

The four Councilors seemed to have gone entirely deaf to his voice.

"We can blindfold them," Winslow said. "Take them out anywhere. Close off the entrance they know. Shouldn't be that hard to reroute traffic once we get the word out. Give me a few hours, and I can have something worked out with Cullen. We can detain them that long, make sure we keep them in sight until we're ready."

The other three nodded.

"This isn't right," Vincent said.

The Council looked up at him with surprise.

Brian turned to him with dark suspicion. "Guess you want to have your own go at me, eh? Finish what you never got to do in front of the kiddies?"

Vincent found himself also playing deaf, lest the memory of his own fury and what he had indeed come too close to doing distracted him from reason. "Jacqueline would not have brought Brian and his daughters here if the danger for them Above were not very real."

"Nevertheless," Father answered, "she did break some of our most important rules, and look what's come of it."

"And the Council will have to hold Jacqueline accountable. It was her decision to ignore our most important processes that left Brian and his daughters here Below with no knowledge of us or our ways. Brian was not made to understand this place as anything more than somewhere to hide."

"That doesn't change the fact that he stabbed Mouse," Winslow said. "Or that he tried to kill you."

"What motive can Brian possibly have had for what he did, except fear? If Jacqueline had handled this matter properly, that fear would have been minimized, or else removed altogether."

Edward leaned forward, his eyes bright and intelligent in his withering face. "You want us to blame Jackie for this, lad?"

"I have no interest in _blame_."

Edward harrumphed, but said nothing.

Vincent continued. "But we must understand the factors that led to the attack, and they are greater than Brian alone. We've established that he never meant to harm Mouse."

Father rubbed at his face. "As sorry as I am for Mouse's injuries, I can accept that it was a tragic accident, and I can forgive Mister Kessler for that. What I cannot accept is the idea that we should continue to harbor the man who attempted to murder my son."

"Oh, shit," Brian hissed, looking between Father and Vincent.

Edward nodded at the topsider. "You don't half do a thing, do you, mate?"

"He saw me as a threat," Vincent pressed. "His actions, as mistaken as they were, did spring from the best intentions."

Winslow and Edward exchanged frowning glances.

"Murder can never come from good intentions!" Mary answered.

Her condemnation silenced that line of arguments in Vincent's mind; if he could not defend Brian to them, what chance did he have of defending himself? He, who had every reason to know better.

He floundered for a moment and latched onto the more emotional point; it was sloppy, but it was what he could grasp then and there. "There is still the matter of the danger Above, not only for Brian himself, but for his daughters as well."

"Naturally the children may stay," Mary said.

Brian surged to his feet. "You're not taking my girls from me!"

Vincent laid a hand on his shoulder, and it was only when Brian startled and stared at him that he realized how automatic the gesture of comfort had been. He dropped his hand, but spoke soothingly. "No one is going to take your children from you. But they will have the _option_ to stay, whatever decision gets made here today."

"Okay." He nodded and looked back at the Council. "Okay. Just. Not that. Not Mel and Andy. They're all I've got." He sat back down.

"I hate to be the one who says it, but Vincent does have a point," Edward said.

The other three looked at him disbelievingly.

"Ach, come off it, lady and gents. This man isn't the murdering kind. Jackie's right about him being a decent sort of bloke. We can all see that. What's the danger in letting him stay, now he's done the worst he can do?"

Father frowned, but Mary and Winslow looked uncertain.

"We did offer him sanctuary, just this afternoon," Winslow said.

"Well, there you go." Edward looked directly at Father. "Now, I'm going to say something we don't like to hear, 'specially as we've most of us watched Vincent grow from a mewling little bab. But three of four of us have lived topside more than not. We know the fear that gets into your head. The ideas you live by. Things we've all spent years unlearning. Give 'em a face like our lad's here, and assumptions get made. Doesn't mean our chap Brian is a bad sort."

"You're asking me to allow that Mister Kessler was justified in what he did, simply because Vincent is different from what he knows?" Father asked. "That flies in the face of everything we've tried to build down here, everything we believe."

"No one's said anything about justified," Winslow answered. "We all agree that none of this can be justified. But Edward's right: what's done is done. The danger's past. The real question is, _can_ we continue to offer these people sanctuary?"

Father looked ready to argue, but Vincent spoke first. "Which of us has never acted in a way that is wholly unjustifiable? How many of our community have we welcomed, in spite of their mistakes, Above or Below? Forgiveness _is_ what we've tried to build down here. Seeing the person and not the wealth, the poverty, the difference, or the mistake _is_ what we believe."

Mary pursed her lips, and she looked ready to concede the point. Father's frown deepened, but Vincent could see it was from facing a truth he didn't like and not from outright disagreement.

"Mister Kessler does sound genuinely sorry for what he's done," Mary ventured slowly. "And mercy has always been our most important ideal."

Father didn't respond.

"We're all agreed that the danger is past," Vincent pressed. "The attack was not random, nor was it a matter of greed or revenge or cruelty. It was perpetrated against a perceived threat and not likely to be repeated. How can we fault any man for acting in the best way that he knew at the time, when we ourselves strive to do the same by what _we_ know?"

"I see your argument," said Father. "I really do. But Vincent, he would have killed you. He _tried_ to kill you. You cannot ask me to forgive that."

Brian dropped his head, his own internal struggle evident on his face, but he said nothing.

"We're not asking you to forgive him, Father," Winslow answered. "But we have to decide for what's right, and sometimes that's not what we feel."

Father considered this, but he turned his attention back to his son. "Vincent, I have to ask. After what this man has done, to Mouse, to _you_, why do you feel such a need to defend him?"

Vincent might have said _because this man is a stranger to our ways and cannot defend himself_. He might have said _because, if I can't defend him, how could I ever hope to defend myself_? He might have said _because you and I both know what I am, even if you pretend not to_. But these were all half-reasons, too tangential or personal.

So he said, "Because the truth of the situation requires it. Brian is a man in need, not a poison to be extracted."

Father examined the faces of his fellow Councilors. When his gaze met Edward's, the old man shook his head in consternation, but his tone carried a weary humor. "You're the one who raised the boy on all those damned books, Jacob." He lifted one hand in what might have been a dismissive wave, if his wrist hadn't been too stiff to flick. "As usual, there's no arguing with his reasoning."

Winslow snorted, but gave no sign of disagreeing. Mary conceded with a nod.

Father sighed. "All right. Then we'll vote. Those in favor of casting Mister Kessler out of the tunnels as we discussed earlier?"

None of the four put up a hand; even Father remained still, if grim. He nodded. "It's decided, then." He addressed Brian. "Mister Kessler, in spite of your actions today, you and your daughter will continue to be offered sanctuary among us for the time being, provided that you can all refrain from throwing our community into further chaos or causing more grievous bodily harm to my people."

Brian nodded.

"I would also recommend that the Council confines the three of you to the innermost chambers, where we can better keep watch."

Mary and Winslow gave their ascent; Edward remained silent, but the majority carried.

Joshua and Dominic strode in then, the former carrying Brian's knife. Vincent had to admit it looked a little smaller now that no one was wielding it against him, but it was still plenty to kill with. Winslow took it from Joshua and dismissed them both. He set the knife on a spare sheaf of paper; the blood on the blade still looked sticky and dark, with granules of sand glinting out of it.

"I think we'll hang on to this for right now," Winslow said.

Brian showed no interest in arguing.

Father put his arms on the table and leaned forward. "Mister Kessler, I'd like you to understand that I don't want you here, in my home. I hope that my son is right when he says that we'll have no more trouble from you. But your fear and your ignorance have threatened us in ways that I don't think you begin to understand. I do hold out a tenuous hope that you might learn something during your time with us. Please make the effort."

Brian accepted this with the silent nod of a man who knew better than to test his luck by speaking.

"Good. Then we're finished here?"

No one had anything further to add. The other Councilors stood, but Father stopped Mary with a hand on her elbow.

"Mary, I think Vincent and I could do with supper here tonight. Would you have someone bring something down?"

"I'm not hungry," Vincent protested. He had been intent on a solitary walk, deeper into the earth since he would not go Above, someplace cool and silent and devoid of prying eyes and expectations to be met. "I have to speak with the children about the lessons I've missed—"

"The children all understand the circumstances. No, I need to have a look at that arm." He nodded to Mary, who nodded back and disappeared.

Vincent looked down at the bandage, and found that a wide blot of blood had leaked through the layers. He reflected that it was for the best that the Council had made its decision before Father had to sew another knife wound shut.

Brian stood and looked lost. "My girls?" he asked the room at large.

"I'll take you," Winslow said.

Edward tottered out on Winslow's arm, Brian in tow.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Apologies for the delay. This was an astoundingly stubborn chapter, and as always, real life had plenty of its own distractions.

Part VI

When they were alone, Father stood and took his black bag down from its shelf. He beckoned Vincent to sit and prop his arm up on the table. Father unwrapped the bandage with a few vague admonishments about the sloppiness of it. While he examined the cut, Vincent made no secret of how much the prodding and cleaning hurt.

"It's deep," Father finally said. "But with your metabolism, it should heal quickly. You'll have to keep it clean; I don't want to try you on antibiotics if I don't have to."

"I'll keep it clean," Vincent promised wearily.

Father looked into his face. "You're still not sleeping," he said. "And today won't help matters. Won't you tell me—"

"I'll be fine, Father."

"You've always been open with me." He touched the side of his son's face. "Whatever's happened—"

Vincent pulled away, on the pretense of looking at his arm. "I'd like to get the stitches over with."

Father dropped his hand, but after a moment's silence, he nodded and set about delivering a local anesthetic, then shaving away the hair around the wound. Concentrating on his work kept him quiet, and for that Vincent was grateful. He should have obeyed his instinct weeks ago to disappear, to bathe his fevered thoughts in the cold waters of his black river, to bury himself so deeply in the earth that he could hurt no one, frighten no one. His bid to cling to humanity left them all vulnerable; from the moment he had felt Brian's life pulse in his hands, his hold had been weak, fractured, a pane of glass against a raging flood.

Vincent resolved to leave when the pipes began to quiet for the night. He'd leave a note for Father, planning to be well below the pipes by morning. The resolution calmed the worst of his agitation; the emotional withdrawal left him space to breathe.

Michael arrived with two plates of food then, Zachary padding behind with a fresh pitcher of water. Father thanked them and sent them both on their way before their inquiring glances could turn into words. The plates sat and cooled in the damp tunnel air, but neither man showed any inclination to do anything about it.

"You're brooding," Father eventually remarked over the final twists of needle and thread.

Vincent closed his eyes and dropped his head back against his chair with a sigh. "It's been a difficult day."

Father snorted at the understatement. "But you defended him."

"I defended what was true."

"Mm," Father answered as he made the final snip.

"You voted in his favor."

Father set his implements down and sat back with a sigh. "I didn't like either choice. I _wanted_ him cast out of our world. _My_ world. Sent back into the world of Above, where his fear and violence belong, where men feed on each other. But your argument was sound."

Vincent flexed his wrist; the stitches and the wound shifted with his muscles, but he felt nothing. He took a fresh strip of gauze and began to wrap his arm. After a moment, Father's hand stopped his and took over. Vincent watched Father work carefully, until he tied off the gauze and laid his hand over the bandage.

"I thought I could keep you safe here, of all places."

Vincent laid his hand over his father's. "I'm safe, Father. I'm fine."

"How can you be so calm about this?"

Vincent pulled away and sat back. "I'm not calm. But I saw his fear. And I saw his penance. What is there left to say?"

Father considered Vincent anew; his son turned his face away from the scrutiny. "It's not like you to hide your thoughts from me."

"I'm not—" but he stopped himself before he could finish the lie.

"You're upset about Mouse," Father guessed. "Of all of us, you've always been very fond of him."

"Yes." He wanted to stand, to pace, but he kept his limbs still, everything in him still, just for these last few hours of the evening.

"He will be fine."

"I'm not questioning your prognosis, Father."

"Nevertheless—"

With no other occupation for his hands, he pulled his dinner to him and investigated the contents with his fork.

Father sighed and pulled his own plate to him, but he paused before picking up the silverware. "Vincent, whatever it is that's been troubling you these last few weeks, when you're ready, you can come to me. You can always come to me."

"I know, Father."

They picked at their tepid suppers in silence.

Vincent heard the angry voices out in the corridor before Father did, but neither was kept in suspense over the source for very long. Half a dozen people filed in, Jonathan leading the pack.

"Why is that topsider still being given sanctuary? After what he's done?" Jonathan demanded.

The chorus of outraged agreement grated against Vincent's tenuously held façade of calm, and he clamped down on a warning growl while Father tried to establish some level of order.

"Hasn't he caused enough damage?" Sarah cried.

"We don't need his violence down here," Olivia said.

Father held up a hand. "The Council has voted—"

"To just let him loose?" Jonathan demanded. "Unsupervised? Unpunished?"

"And what would you have us do to punish him?" Vincent asked, his frustration shrouded in layers of reasoned calm. "What is the just payment for his crimes?"

"We can keep him confined," Vivian said. "Away from the rest of us."

"Brian isn't a danger to anyone," Vincent answered.

"We could let you have a go at him," Jonathan said. "Show him what scary really is, you know?"

Father stood then, leaning over the table with both hands flat on the surface. "Enough. I will not have any of that sort of talk here Below, either in my chamber or anywhere else. _This_ is not who we strive to be. To even make such a suggestion, Jonathan! That is exactly the sort of topsider thinking that led to this near-tragedy to begin with."

"I just don't see why we've always gotta be the ones to turn the other cheek," Jonathan retorted. "Last I heard, murder wasn't okay, even down here. And neither was trying to gut kids. But no one's willing to do anything about it. I see Vincent's willing to pretend nothing's happened to keep your precious peace. Think Mouse'll be okay doing the same? Think Mouse'll share a meal with the topsider that almost killed him, just because you ask him to?"

"There can be little doubt that Mouse's reaction to the situation will be entirely his own," Father said. "But the Council's decision was made on the evidence before us. Calmly. Rationally. There is no reason to believe that Mister Kessler will pose any further threat to us."

Jonathan's angry retort got cut short when Jamie shouldered past him. "Mouse is awake," she announced before anyone could question her manners.

"So soon?" Father asked. "I expected him to sleep through the night."

Jamie shrugged, her expression making it clear that she saw little correlation between what Father expected and what Mouse did, even in medical matters.

Father sighed and nodded. "On the other hand, perhaps his timing is extraordinarily fortuitous. Thank you, Jamie, for coming to me straight away. I'll be down in a moment to take a look."

"Vincent, too," she said. "Mouse made me promise."

Vincent nodded once. "I'll be go with Father."

Jamie nodded, but she hovered on the spot, looking at the knot of people that had gathered.

"Was there something else?" Father prompted.

"Everyone's pretty upset that the topsider's allowed to stay with us," she said.

"Yes. Jonathan and I were just discussing that very point," Father answered, his calm words laced with warning.

But she lingered still, with no evidence of noticing his tone. When she spoke, she looked between Father and Vincent with some trepidation, her words slow and earnest. "Is it because of what he said? You know, about…trying to help me?"

"It's more complicated than that," Father said. "But that is perhaps the most crucial factor."

Jamie nodded. She bit her lower lip. "I don't like it, either. Is the Council _really_ sure?"

Father's temper flared; Vincent could see it in his face, but Jamie's question had been asked with an honest need for reassurance and none of Jonathan's churlish ire.

"We are as sure as we can be," Father said wearily.

Vincent felt the tension in the room break. The cold obsidian of righteous anger cracked, and compassion seeped back into the faces that had gathered to decry the heavy decision placed on the Council. That tender trust forged of love and shared experience started the job of dismantling the sense of insult and injustice.

"Then it'll be on your heads when one of us isn't ask lucky as Mouse," Jonathan growled, but Sarah took his arm.

"C'mon, John. It is what it is." She tugged his arm to follow those who had already begun to drift toward the doorway.

He resisted her with an angry tug back, freeing his arm, but he had no more audience. He glared, but said nothing before stalking out.

When the chamber had cleared, Father sat back and sighed.

"He's been more restless lately," Vincent said.

"By 'restless,' you mean argumentative, obstinate, and foolish," Father answered with a snort. "Bloody-minded, not to put too fine a point on it."

"We knew when he came to us that he had his own demons to face."

"And it seems he's determined not to face them at all, but to set them all on the rest of us." He sighed again, but this time some of the tension in his face and shoulders flowed out with his breath. "Well. We mustn't keep Mouse waiting."

They stood, and Vincent let Father set the pace. At the doorway to the hospital chamber, Vincent paused, letting Father get his examination underway. When he did cross to the bedside, Mouse lost all focus on Father's instructions and questions.

"Vincent!" His face was pale, and his eyes drooped precariously, but he grinned. "Okay! Jamie said. Had to see."

"Yes, I'm well," Vincent said as he sat down next to the bed. "You're the one we're worried about."

Mouse shrugged this off. "Good. Fine. Hardly hurts."

Vincent tried not to relive the stunned, strangled breath he'd heard escape Mouse's lungs as the knife sliced into him, or the way his whole body had folded in on itself as he dropped to the ground, or the way his head had lolled lifelessly when they finally reached the hospital chamber. Vincent tried, but the images were still too fresh and vibrant to go unseen.

"Well, your vitals look good, Mouse," Father said. "Better than I expected. You scared us all."

"Wasn't so scared," Mouse answered. "Had Vincent. Fastest. Strongest. Wouldn't let anything happen to Mouse."

The boy's idolization had always been uncomfortable, but it had never struck so deeply; the lie of it had never been so blatant. Vincent heard Father call after him, but he sounded so distant, so insignificant against the need to move, to think, to get _out_, that he was half way down the corridor before he realized he'd even left Mouse's bedside.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I wanted to keep to the schedule for this one, but I won't be posting over Christmas weekend. Happy holidays :)

Part VII

"Vincent," Father said into his son's restless pacing. "I didn't expect you here."

Vincent stopped moving, peered up at him, then at his surroundings, surprised to find himself back in Father's chamber. Sense caught up with him; he could be well out of the most densely populated tunnels by now. What had possessed him to return _here_?

Father descended the metal stairs. "I was afraid you would leave." He stopped in front of his son. "I'm glad to see you haven't."

"I should have," Vincent answered. "I don't know why I came back here."

"Perhaps solitude isn't really what you seek right now."

Vincent didn't respond. He went back to pacing, the rhythm of his steps slower and more agonized this time.

"Mouse was quite upset with the way that you left."

Vincent paused mid-step, but then he continued without a word.

"He asked me if he had said something wrong," Father continued. "I told him that he hadn't. I told him I had no idea why you had fled. I think that upset him even more."

Vincent heard the words, took their meanings into the torrent in him, but he said nothing.

"Vincent, please." Father's forced calm gave way to outright pleading. "Talk to me. Whatever has happened, it cannot be more difficult than anything you and I have faced in the past."

Vincent stopped, leaned against the desk. "Say it, Father. Please."

"Say what?"

Vincent struck the desk with one fist and went back to pacing. "What no one else seems willing to acknowledge. The silence, the blatant omission, is worse than the truth."

"What truth? Vincent, I don't understand."

"That Mouse has such faith in me, and no one cares to contradict him, even while he lies in his sickbed because of me. That I brought this danger upon us."

Father tried to approach his son then, but was rebuffed by the force of Vincent's movement. "There's no truth in that. No one has said the words because no one here thinks them. Vincent, how can you take any blame for what has happened today?"

Vincent made several more laps of the chamber before slowing and finally pausing, teasing one thread out of the jumble in his mind to follow. He said, "I have faced dangers in the world Above. But to have _this_, in my own home—am I to hide away every time we have a new face in the tunnels? Should I turn away at every sound, every footstep? The dangers from Above have never touched me down here. And now suddenly that fear threatens not only me, but also the people that I love. I dared to think that I protect the people who protect me, but today, I have brought nothing but brutality and blood into our home, into our place of peace. Tell me, Father, what am I to feel, except some great portion of the blame? I cannot continue to pretend that harboring me is not itself a risk that everyone here shares."

Father stood before Vincent and put a hand in his hair, at once giving comfort and forcing his son's focus. "No one here has ever _harbored_ you, Vincent. You are a part of us, not some criminal hiding in the dark."

Vincent turned away from Father, pulled away from his touch. "And yet I _must_ hide. And yet my face is a danger to all of you, as good as any wanted criminal's. For all the good intentions in our world, those closest to me can still be hurt, simply for knowing me."

"Do not cheapen what Mouse did for you," Father answered, his tone full of warning.

Vincent looked at him over his shoulder, the fear and pain of the last hours writ large and piercing in his gaze. He looked away again. "What Mouse did was foolishness."

"Yes. And it was love."

Vincent's head dropped down, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of the afternoon. "He shouldn't have done it."

"Vincent, you do protect us. More than that, you serve the community in any way that we ask. Sentry, teacher, messenger, hauler, digger, worker. And how many of our people turn to you for counsel? These last years, I've watched you not only becoming a man, but also coming to be respected by all those who know you. They see that you embody and live by all of the highest ideals upon which this community was first founded."

"We both know _that_ is not true."

"It is true. You reach out to so many people with love and, and an _understanding_ that is practically unheard of in the world Above. And they are grateful for it."

"It's no great feat to offer understanding when I can as good as feel their fear, their sorrow, their helplessness."

"And what you did for Mouse when he was a child? Finding him, bringing him to us, teaching him? The boy could not speak when he first came to us. Is that worth nothing?"

Vincent strode a few steps across the chamber, turned and strode halfway back. "It's worth nothing that Mouse must feel compelled to _pay back_. He owes me nothing, least of all his life. There will always be someone with a knife, with a gun, with some means and some reason to come for me."

"Then what? The people you care for as family are meant to stand by and _watch_ when that fear and that ignorance are brought down to our doorstep? Do you expect Mouse or Jamie or myself or any of the others down here who love you to _let_ the men with knives and guns come for you? Don't be ridiculous."

"There is not a man with a knife that has menaced me yet. These two hands are capable of worse, have _done_ worse."

"This man stabbed you."

"And I might have murdered him in front of his children if Jamie hadn't stopped me!"

The admission rang through the chamber, leaving father and son in silence, staring at one another. Then Vincent turned away in frustration. In shame.

"He was afraid and helpless in my hand, Father. I felt the frantic beat of his heart where I held his neck. I saw terror in his eyes. And still, _still_ I pressed."

"You were provoked," Father said.

"I was enraged," Vincent answered. "I was in a place that knows nothing of love or mercy. It is a dark, savage place, and it is in me. At all times, I feel it. Threatening. His fear might have started as a weak, baseless thing, but I _earned_ his terror in the end. That is why Mouse should not have risked his life for me, why no one here Below should."

Father tried to approach his son, but he only pulled further away. "Vincent—"

"I killed a man, Father."

The confession came out hardly above a whisper, but it brought every movement in Father's body, every word on his tongue, to a halt. The silence continued, and Vincent kept his head turned away, his face hidden.

"How?" Father finally asked. "When?"

"Three weeks ago." The words were slow, but for the first time in weeks, he _could_ force them out, drag the truth out of himself, inch by grating inch. "I was Above. There was shouting. And crying. And I found them, a man and a girl. Not even Jamie's age. Beaten and crying, her clothes torn away, and—" he drew in a long breath. "I was too late. I could see, he had already—she was—" His throat closed up.

Father closed his eyes.

"I killed him." He flexed his clawed hands. "I tore into him. Even as she watched, I tore him apart. She screamed. It was her screaming that…that pulled me out of the darkness, the man's blood on my hands, on my cloak. And I saw her, the way that she looked at me, like I would—I tried to talk to her, calm her, but she kept screaming, and I had to run. The police were coming. I ran to the tunnels. I cleaned my hands, and I threw my cloak into the Abyss."

Vincent let his father approach him, desperate for condemnation or absolution, anything to still the torrent in him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Father asked.

"How could I? I couldn't even stop him, Father. All I did was add witnessing murder to the girl's traumas."

"You made sure that he paid for his crimes. You made sure that he could not commit them again."

"I terrorized a girl that had already endured too much!"

"You delivered a swifter justice than their system would have."

Vincent turned to face Father, his gaze imploring. "How can you speak of justice when I tell you I have a man's blood on my hands? There was no justice in what I did. There was only the darkness. The rage. The need for blood. Like I haven't felt since the darkest times of my youth. And I thought, if that's what waits for me Above, then I should stay Below. I should content myself Below. But even here, I'm not safe from myself, from what I am. And neither is anyone else."

Father put his hand in Vincent's hair again. "That is not what _you_ are. You have never struck an innocent. You have never used your might against those who depend on you. The darkness that could allow anyone to do what that man did—_that_ is the enemy. _That_ is what you have never been."

Vincent reached up with his hands, wanting to shake Father into seeing reason, but he curled his fingers in on themselves and held back. "I could," he said. "When I'm in that place—there's no love. No kindness. Only blood. I could—"

"You couldn't." Father placed his free hand on the other side of his son's head. "Vincent, I know you. If the darkness were so strong in you as that, Jamie wouldn't have pulled you from it so easily. No, your love for Mouse, your worry for him, was stronger. Whatever you have felt in you, the love you feel has always been stronger. _That_ is what you are. Who you are."

Vincent shook his head, pulling away from his father's solace. He couldn't, _couldn't_ accept it, not with the memory of a man's last gasping breath still bright and sharp in his mind, like the reflection of the noonday sun in the Mirror Pool. The smell of his victim's blood, still hot on Vincent's palms, even as the body gave out, rent and torn too deeply to continue functioning. The screaming, still high in Vincent's ears, still trapped in his skull, burning through every thought and every waking moment, a physical pain lancing down his spine. And hardly hours old, the abject terror in a stranger's eyes, the certainty of death settling in Brian's pulse, the ancient subjection of prey to predator in the space of those final heartbeats.

But worse. Worse than worse. Worse than worst, the crystalline memory of such deep satisfaction, cold and sharp and undeniable in his chest. Above, his victim's blood had smelled of copper, bright and tangy in the darkness, what rare and glorious spice. Flesh had parted with such decadent ease under his fingers, spilling life out onto rain spattered pavement. The man's body had convulsed and gasped as Vincent followed it down to the ground to share that last moment between living and dying, that last moment when every detail of the murder felt good and right, when the inhuman power hidden in his limbs rejoiced to be released.

He would have done the same to Brian. In front of Brian's own children, in front of children Vincent had himself nurtured and helped grow, he had _wanted_ the satisfaction of that power. The unforgivable conviction of that want made him sick with shame and revulsion. Words stacked up in his throat, backed up into his chest, pressing against his lungs and his heart, but he couldn't let them out. He cowered from the knowledge of what the words would do once released out into the world, once his father began to grasp them, finally grasped what his son had done, had felt.

The persistent calling of his name, Father's insistent, demanding voice added to the din in his head, and when Father touched him, tugged his arm, like he had any _right_ to command Vincent's attention—

Vincent turned on him, fury and anguish melding into one violent roar, his eyes wild, his teeth bared, sharp and threatening and bared in his father's face, against his father's persistence. It was the roar of a creature possessed, cruel in its pitch, hewn of every deep shadow in Vincent's heart, echoing on the stones of his father's chamber, long and unyielding and desperately, agonizingly inhuman to his own ears.

When he had no more breath left, the moment receded, and realization brought self-recrimination flooding in to fill the void. Father had pulled away from him, retreated from him with wide, wary eyes, and the bald truth of _what_ he was landed in Vincent's chest like a physical blow. He stepped backwards, turned his face, his body away in shame, and when Father spoke his name again, softly this time, and touched his arm, he flinched away, terrified by the power thrumming in his own limbs, still there, just under the surface, so tightly coiled and ready to lash out, to destroy. He tried to draw further in on himself when Father circled around to force his attention, and Vincent wanted to run, wanted to escape before he could see the fear or the reproach in his father's gray eyes.

But Father reached up to him, touched his hair, the back of his head, brought their foreheads together. He drew his son into a tender embrace, whispered soothing words that carried no hint of fear, no hint of reproach. Vincent didn't even know he was shaking until the tremors started to ease, and something in him fractured, splintered, fell apart. His next breaths shuddered with the release of untold horrors as Father drew his fingers through his hair in a rhythm he knew as well as his own heartbeat. There were hot tears on his face, but he didn't remember shedding them. He reached up and returned his father's embrace, too grateful for words.

"I've always feared that something like this would come to pass for you, Vincent," Father said. "But you _did_ act out of love, out of compassion for another's suffering. I never wished you to know this hurt, of all the others in this world, but you mustn't carry this blame against yourself.

"And nothing that happened today was your fault," he continued. "Not Mouse, not this stranger. You've done nothing to deserve this."

Vincent let out a shuddering breath, anxious to disagree but out of strength for words. He heard quick footsteps in the corridor outside, but Father wouldn't release him to look. The footsteps receded. A moment later, an all clear went out over the pipes. Of course; the violence of his outburst would have echoed through half of the tunnels of their community. He rested his forehead on his father's shoulder and fought against thoughts of what they would all think to look at him in the morning, berated himself for giving them a reason to remember exactly what he was not.

Father kissed his hair. "I'm grateful that things did not turn out any worse today. What could have happened doesn't bear thinking about."

"The man Above," Vincent said, his voice low and broken, "I _felt_ him die. I watched his eyes fade to darkness. And I can still hear the girl's screaming." The words burned his tongue like bile, but they offered some small release for being the closest he could come to the true terror of it all. His throat threatened to close, but he forced out the most haunting question. "What man tears another apart with his bare hands, Father? The monster that Brian saw—"

"Was his own fear, reflected back at him. Your abilities do make you different, Vincent, but they do not make you any _lesser_. They do not make you wrong."

Vincent submitted, worn down to nothing. He stood under his father's soothing touch and felt his breath and his heartbeat begin to normalize. It wasn't all right; nothing was all right, but it was better than it had been before. The persistent buzz under his thoughts had dissipated, and his mind felt more his own than it had in weeks.

Father pulled back. "Perhaps you should try to sleep now. It's been a difficult day."

Vincent shook his head; as much as he had craved darkness and silence only minutes before, neither held any appeal now. Perhaps he'd make his rounds of the community, assure himself that all was well, or else soothe his mind with poetry in the Whispering Gallery.

Father nodded. "Then have a seat. There's something I've been meaning to ask you about for a few days now."

Vincent regarded him warily, but Father only crossed to his desk to retrieve a book, an aged copy of _The Canterbury Tales_ in the original Middle English, if memory served.

"I was reading the Pardoner's tale the other day, and I found a particular passage that I was having trouble translating," Father explained as he worked his way back to his favorite chair. "Perhaps you could help me?"

Vincent knew when he was being offered a distraction; Father had taught him to read Chaucer as a boy. But the distraction was welcome, along with the easy companionability of discussing literature, and he sat down with every impression of aiming to be helpful. After the day's events, he knew that any return to normality would be a comfort to the both of them.


	8. Chapter 8

Part VIII

Father and Vincent didn't linger on conveniently elusive passages of the Pardoner's tale for long. They touched briefly on the morality of greed, but it was a well worn discussion that led to entirely unacceptable levels of agreement and accord between them, until Father likened Death's description of what lay under the tree to the words of the prophets that sent Oedipus on his unfortunate path to patricide. Vincent waved off the similarity as tenuous at best, alike in theme, perhaps, but not in intent or meaning or origin, but Father insisted on drawing the parallel. Both men took to the shelves and book stacks, the elder in search of various translations of Sophocles and the younger in search of Western European folklore and cautionary tales. They were quarreling in earnest over relevant passages as they paged through each text when angry voices in the corridor caught their attention once more, and Vincent made a point of hearing no coarse oath pass Father's well-mannered lips.

The relative levity in the chamber slid out from under them when Jacqueline fought her way in, past Winslow, Rebecca, and Kanin and their vehement protests.

"How could you just let them go like that?" she demanded of Father as she charged down the steps. She had large, hoop earrings that swung in time to her fervor. "Those men are still up there. What the hell did you do to chase them off?"

Father pulled off his glasses and closed them with a pointed snap, but Winslow spoke before he could. "Chased them off? Tell that to Mouse and Vincent. I say good riddance to them!"

"Showed 'em more than our share of mercy," Kanin said. "We weren't exactly going to beg them to stay."

"We'll all sleep easier for it, I can tell you that," Rebecca added.

"Am I to surmise from all of this," Father interjected, "that Mister Kessler and his daughters have left us?"

"Ernesto found them wandering around, trying to get out, about an hour ago," Winslow said. "They were insistent, so he showed them the way." He glanced between Vincent and Father. "I didn't think it was anything that couldn't wait till morning to tell."

Vincent understood this to mean that Winslow had decided not to interrupt them.

"Look, I know no one likes how I went about bringing them down here," Jacqueline said, "but that's on me. Brian wouldn't have taken the girls back up when those men are still hunting them. What the hell did you all do to chase him off?"

"Now don't you _dare_—" Winslow shifted forward, but Kanin stopped him with a quick hand on his shoulder.

"After Mister Kessler's attempt on Vincent's life," Father explained with biting calm, "and after the afternoon I spent in emergency surgery to save Mouse from bleeding to death, the Council voted to honor our offer of sanctuary to your friend and his daughters. Now, I admit that our welcome may not have been quite as warm as is our usual custom, but I think under the circumstances, even you can agree that we did little to _chase them off_."

Jacqueline stared first at Father, then at Vincent, then at Winslow, Kanin, and Rebecca each in turn. Finally, she said, "I don't understand. Brian would never—"

"Mister Kessler would and, more to the point, _has_," Father answered.

"The knife is still there on the table, if you need proof," Winslow said.

Everyone looked at the table, at the silent blade, dark and crusted over with Mouse's blood.

Jacqueline shook her head, looking lost. "I still don't understand." She looked at Vincent, at the gauze wrapped around his forearm. "Why would Brian ever—?"

"Seemed to think he was saving Jamie's life," Winslow answered. "Damn it, Jackie, we have a process for a reason."

Some of the bewilderment left Jacqueline's face, replaced by lines of tension. "Is Mouse—?"

"He's healing," Vincent said, the two soft words commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

Jacqueline stared at him, took the temperature of his gaze. "Vincent, I'm so sorry. It just never occurred to me—"

"That seems to be the biggest part of the problem," Rebecca answered with uncharacteristic acidity.

Jacqueline turned on her, her contrition burning away in a white-hot flash. "They're up there, and someone's trying to kill them. Someone powerful, and determined. Mel and Andy are eleven and eight years old; do you think I should have left them topside so your Council could talk and debate and philosophize? Eleven and eight, Rebecca, and they've already lost their mother. These last weeks have been a terror to them I can't even imagine, and now their lives are in danger, too." Her gaze swept over everyone, bright with tears and sickening worry. "And whatever else Brian has done, he's a good man, just trying to keep his daughters alive. He was middle management before all of this, what's he supposed to do against these men? You're the only people I can turn to. Please, you have to help me. Help them. Please. I promised Maddie, if anything ever happened to her—Mel's my goddaughter, don't you understand, I can't just—please!"

She closed her eyes against the stony silence that met her words, and tears slipped out from under her lashes. After a moment and a deep, shuddering breath, she collected herself and opened her eyes once more. For all that it was still wreathed by unshed tears, the gaze she turned on each of them had cooled to solid steel.

"They'll die. Brian doesn't stand a chance, and they'll kill the girls, too. Some of the police have been bought off. There's no telling which ones are working for these bastards and which ones aren't. They have no one to go to, no one to help them."

"If they return to us, we will continue to offer them sanctuary," Father said. "But we cannot—Vincent, where are you going?"

Vincent paused half way across the chamber. "I need to borrow your cloak, Father."

"My cloak?" Comprehension dawned in Father. "You cannot possibly mean to—no! I absolutely forbid it, Vincent. There's already been one attempt on your life today. I will not allow you to go Above for this!"

Vincent regarded Father for a moment with raised eyebrows, but he said nothing. He finished crossing the chamber and took Father's cloak from its hook in silence.

"Vincent, this is crazy!" Winslow boomed.

"You can't go up there," Rebecca said.

He swung the cloak onto his shoulders, finding it a little short, but otherwise perfectly serviceable.

Kanin tried to block his way back across the chamber, but was forced backwards with each of Vincent's steps. "I know you want to help them, but they made their choice to return Above when they had safety here. Getting yourself killed isn't going to solve anything!"

Vincent dropped a hand on Kanin's shoulder in silent thanks for his words, but he moved past the other man, stopping in front of Father.

"Vincent, please—"

"I'll return soon, Father."

Father laid a hand in his son's hair and spoke quietly, his eyes solemn and fixed to Vincent's. "That question you asked me, earlier—you have nothing to prove. Not to us. Not to yourself. This risk—"

"You know I have to go, Father. If it's possible that I can do some good in this situation, I must go. Try not to worry. I will return."

Father moved his hand to the side of Vincent's face, and his son clasped his father's shoulder. After a moment, Vincent drew away and ascended the metal stairs to the doorway. The others shouted after him, but he didn't look back as he led Jacqueline out of the chamber.

They traversed the innermost chambers in silence. As they reached the less populated tunnels, Jacqueline spoke. "I want to try their apartment first. I hope to God he's not stupid enough to go back, but I'm not sure where else to start. I guess I'll go home and check my machine for messages, if they're not there."

Vincent nodded as she gave him the cross streets for Brian's apartment, mapping out possible routes and determining the quickest. He led the way in long, quick strides, but Jacqueline kept pace, her nervous energy spurring them both on.

"Vincent, whatever happens," Jacqueline said haltingly, "you know I can't thank you enough for coming with me." Her words lingered between them, difficult and unfinished, until she said, almost a whisper, "I don't know what else to do."

"We have the advantage over these men," Vincent answered. He considered the split in the tunnels ahead, deciding on the best direction as he turned his feet. "You know where Brian is likely to go, and he trusts you. We'll find them, Jacqueline."

"He's trying to be strong for them," she said softly. "But he's hurting and alone. And Melody, God, it breaks my heart, seeing her trying to be so strong for him. She still sleeps with her favorite doll, for God's sake, and she's trying to be a mother for Andy and a help to her father. I was so sure the tunnels would be good for them all. I couldn't even imagine—how is Mouse, really?"

"Mouse will heal." They passed through a carved archway smoothed into the stone by unknown hands, marking the boundary between stone tunnels and the brick of the undercity. "We were afraid for a time," he admitted. "But he's young and strong."

She said nothing for several corridors. As they neared the top, she asked, "And how are you, really?"

"I'll heal, as well." Truthfully, the local anesthetic Father had administered earlier had begun to wear off, a steady ache creeping back into the abused flesh.

"Yes, and it'll snow in Buffalo before the week is out, but that has nothing to do with the question I asked."

In spite of himself, Vincent smiled, just slightly, at the force of her words.

Jacqueline sighed. "Look, I know you've turned stoicism into a hobby, career, and bad habit, but if there's anything I can do, any apology I can make—"

"We're here." He stopped in front of a ladder. The grate above led to a narrow dead space between two shop fronts; somehow in the course of construction and reconstruction in the last century, each building had separately walled off the alcove, and the emptiness went unnoticed by the tenants of both. With a clever door in the outer wall and a hidden latch in the grate, it was one of the best and simplest thresholds the people Below had.

Vincent took to the ladder, tripped the latch, and led the way out. With his weeks of self-imprisonment Below, Vincent had expected the sounds and smells and infinitely open space Above to be strange and disorienting, but he found himself acclimating in the moments he waited for Jacqueline to crawl through the hidden doorway.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings. She pointed down the alley. "That way?"

He nodded. They set off, and Jacqueline blundered past him when he paused at the end of the alley, stopping only when she realized he wasn't directly behind. She turned and took in his wary glances into the open street before sense caught up with her. "Oh," she said.

But it was late, and the neighborhood was quiet. With the hood of his father's cloak drawn low over his face, he left the alley and let Jacqueline lead the way quickly.

She pointed to the building when it came into sight. "I'll go up and see if they're in. I—"

"It could be dangerous." He considered the building, square and brick and lined with uniform windows. "Which one is theirs?"

With a bit more careful skulking, they circled around to the back alley, and she pointed to a dark window. "There. The fire escape leads to Brian and Maddie's—" she caught herself with a small, choked sound. "To Brian's bedroom."

"Stay here." The gap between the ground and the first level of a fire escape was a challenge Vincent had overcome in his teens. He scrambled up on the outside of the railings, level to level, knowing this method to be quicker and quieter than using the steps. He crouched outside the correct window and peered inside carefully. The room looked empty of occupants, but it was clear that it had been ransacked; the dresser drawers had been pulled out and dumped over the bed, and the closet door hung open, revealing a chaos of clothes and boxes left there. There were no lights on in the apartment, but he waited and listened, just in case. And then—

"Damn it, Mel," Brian's voice said, his voice tight, "we don't have time for this. Just go and help your sister pack."

"Pack what? To go where?" Melody demanded. "You won't let us turn on the lights, and our stuff's all over the floor—"

"It doesn't matter. Just gather what you can and give me a moment to _think_."

"Let's go to Aunt Jackie's," Melody pled, and Vincent could hear tears welling up in her voice. "She'll help us—"

"Like she helped us this morning? No, we're going to…we're going to leave the city. _Go_."

Vincent moved back from the window. He pulled a smooth river stone out of his pocket and tapped softly on the metal grating beneath his feet: _Present. Safe._

Jacqueline made no reply; he saw her hurry around the corner, back toward the street, and waited. After a couple of minutes, he heard knocking on the front door. It seemed to take a minute or two more for Jacqueline to convince Brian to let her in, but she didn't hesitate to speak her mind loudly and pointedly the moment he did.

"I went Below and found you'd disappeared. What hell are you thinking, Brian Kessler? Coming back Above, and coming here, of all places. They could be watching your building; clearly they've already been here. How could you bring the girls here with you?"

"You knew. You knew about that…that creature they have down there. Andy's been sick for fear of him. How could you send us down there, knowing? With no warning? Haven't they been through enough?"

"If you mean Vincent, I didn't see anything to warn you about. He looks a bit different—"

"_Looks_ a bit different? He's not human, Jackie! He roars like some animal. He's got _claws_. He's strong like…like I don't know what, but it isn't anything human. He nearly killed me!"

"Did you really stab Mouse?"

This seemed to gut the force of Brian's blustering; he answered first with silence, then with words too quiet for Vincent to make out. Vincent waited and kept watch, wondering for the first time since he'd made the decision if it had been wise to come with Jacqueline. He had never found much reason to question his impulse to watch over and protect those who could not fight for themselves; Below it was always simply assumed to be his role, the one advantage in everything that he was. But Below, there was no fear to complicate things. Waiting outside the Kesslers' window, he began to worry that his presence could do no more than confuse the situation further.

He had just resolved to remain entirely out of sight and let Jacqueline handle the situation when he saw a car roll down the adjacent alley, toward the street, but instead of turning out, the driver cut the engine. The doors opened; he heard footsteps and low voices.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Again, apologies for another delayed post! I hadn't meant to leave the cliffie extra-long. In my defense, I've been busy taking steps to obtain full-time employment (which is to say: OMG, OMG, I got a job! Squee!1!) And on the bright side, this is the longest chapter yet.

Also, in my fandomish forays, I stumbled across my own fic on .com, which is totally cool, only I'm not sure exactly how it got there. That means I'm not sure who to tell that it's really not rated G so much as PG, at least, and probably PG-13 after this chapter. Help? Also also, I'd totally take any suggestions on the existent summary to this fic; I've never liked it much, but I was trying not to give too much away, either. Thoughts?

Lastly, enjoy! :)

Part IX

Vincent's resolve to remain silent and invisible drained away, and he tapped _warning_ directly on the glass of the window with one pointed nail.

"What was that?" Brian demanded, his voice coming closer. "That tapping—"

"It's a friend. He must have seen something. We don't have any time to argue. Come on, girls. That's right, Andy, get your mittens back on. Mel, keep hold of your dad and your sister. Everyone's going to be just fine."

A moment later, the bedroom window slid open, and Jacqueline poked her head out.

"I think there are four of them," Vincent told her. "They'll leave at least one in the alley to watch the back. It's not safe."

"Waiting for them to come in here isn't exactly safe, either," she answered.

He stood up, and she got out of the way so he could duck in through the window. Brian swore at the sight of him. Andrea began to cry.

"_Him_, Jackie?" Brian demanded. "How could you bring _him_?"

"There's no one else," she said. "He'll keep us safe, Brian. Trust me, if you won't trust him."

"If you'd just let me keep my gun—"

"There are no guns Below. Anyway, what are you going to do against three or four trained killers?"

"Defend my family! I can't—"

Vincent held up a hand. He heard heavy footsteps and low voices coming from the corridor, too quiet for the others to hear. "Someone's coming."

"Oh, God," Jackie whispered.

"Keep everyone together," Vincent said as he pushed past the others and made his way out into the dark living room.

After half a moment's thought, he slipped across the room into the doorway opposite the hall, and found himself in the kitchen. If his adversaries were thorough, one of them would check here, and he could pick that one off first. If his adversaries were sloppy and they all turned their attention to the bedrooms immediately, he could catch them all by surprise from behind. The disadvantage was in leaving the hallway undefended, but experience told him that his hulking, growling form descending out of the darkness would be enough to distract them from their intended targets.

They kicked the door in then; it sprang open easily, having already been kicked in once and now closed only by its chain.

"Oh, Mister Kessler," a man called tauntingly. From his vantage point, Vincent could see he was a tall and narrow-faced, in a tailored coat and black, shiny shoes. The leader, then; the other two who entered with him wore jeans and puffy, quilted coats. "We know you're in here; let's do this like civilized men, yes?"

One of the men in jeans left the other two in the middle of the room, his gun raised, and moved carefully toward the kitchen. Vincent waited, using those seconds to concentrate on leashing his most savage instincts; he would release the predator in himself only so far as absolutely necessary tonight and have no new memories of blood and death to haunt him. His control would _hold_.

The man stepped through the doorway inches from where Vincent waited, and it was the work of three breaths to break his dominant arm, backhand him across the face, and throw him back into the living room, directly into his partner, with a fierce snarl.

He had hoped for more shock from the one left standing, the leader, that he could use that moment to get out into the living room and finish the job, but the narrow-faced man swung around immediately and trained his gun on the kitchen doorway.

"Get up," the leader hissed to the thug pinned under his partner's prone form.

The man struggling on the floor swore. "I dropped my gun."

"And then you announced it to the asshole in the kitchen. Well done."

Throwing something was going to be his best option, Vincent decided, to take out the one that was still armed. He cast about for something suitable, and he had stooped to pick up the knife block when he heard a shout and the thump of someone falling to the floor. He risked putting his head through the doorway to find Brian and the leader struggling each to gain the upper hand against the other.

The third man, the thug that was still conscious, had extricated himself and threw himself at Brian, bowling him over. Vincent darted out of the kitchen, but the leader was quick, grabbing his gun up off the floor and aiming.

"Now what do we have here?" the man asked, his eyes narrowing through the darkness.

Vincent growled.

"Some science experiment gone wrong, perhaps?" He moved to his knees, then stood, the gun's aim unwavering in his hand. "Tell me, are you a man turned dog, or a dog made man-shaped?"

Movement from the mouth of the hallway caught Vincent's attention a moment before Jacqueline tried to take the narrow-faced man from behind, much as Brian must have done, except that she had had the foresight to strip the shade from a bedside lamp and upend it as a one-handed club.

Their adversary, however, was not so easily caught off guard a second time; he stepped away and turned quickly, pulling back across the room, toward the open front door, until he could safely cover both of them with the gun.

In the tense silence that followed, Vincent became aware that the scuffle between Brian and the third thug must have come to an end. Even as he thought this, Brian rose up slightly from behind the far end of the couch, aiming a gun at the leader.

"Found your man's gun, Sharpe," Brian said. He adjusted his grip on the weapon, squinting through the dimness of the room. "You killed my Maddie."

With the barest flick of his wrist toward the couch, Sharpe fired; the shot went wide, hitting nothing but the wall, but Brian flinched. That heartbeat was all the time Sharpe needed to duck out the front door and disappear into the corridor.

Brian leapt up to go after him, but Jacqueline dropped her makeshift club to grab him by the arm. "We have to get the girls out of here," she said.

He stared at the open doorway for a long moment before he turned to look at her, his face clouding with confusion as if he didn't know who she was. But the confusion cleared away as quickly as it had come, and he nodded.

They retreated back to the bedroom, where Brian coaxed his daughters out from under the bed.

"We have to go Below," Jacqueline informed him, leaving no room for argument. "It's the safest place."

Still, he hesitated, staring at Vincent, who said, "The offer of sanctuary remains."

"We're not exactly welcomed guests Below," Brian answered.

"Well, you did almost kill Mouse," Jacqueline shot back. "You're going to have to suck it up and deal with a few cold shoulders to keep Andy and Mel safe."

"I can't trust those people. There's no telling what they might do." Again, his gaze shifted to Vincent, making his meaning more than perfectly clear.

With lethal speed, Jacqueline reached out and slapped Brian across the face. "He just risked his neck for the three of you. Now you listen to me, Brian Kessler. I am going to take care of Maddie's girls. You can disappear out into the night here and now if you have a death wish, but you are not taking them with you. They are going where they will be safe and looked after, no matter what suicidal risks their father decides to take."

"Daddy, just come with us," Melody whispered. She took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "It'll be okay. We'll all be okay. I promise."

Jacqueline's eyes became bright with unshed tears, and she laid her hands on her goddaughter's shoulders. "Oh, Mel…"

Vincent saw acquiescence forming in Brian's face and couldn't wait any longer. "We can't go back the way we came without going past Sharpe," he told Jacqueline. "I'll take care of the driver of the car and Sharpe. There's another entrance, about four blocks south of here, where there used to be a furniture store."

"The one that had the fire a couple years ago?" Brian asked.

Vincent nodded. "Yes. The entrance is in the basement, through the workshop. The bars on the second window in from the street on the north side are not locked; Jacqueline, you'll recognize the type of latch we've used. I won't be far behind."

She nodded. "Be careful."

With a nod of his own, Vincent pushed past them and back out to the fire escape. He used it to get up to the roof, where he could get a good vantage point on the car in the alley below. There were two men in the alley, not just the one that he had hoped for. The man keeping watch at the back of the building was of normal height and stockier than average build; Vincent surmised that he might be stronger than he looked at first glance. Of course, the gun that he held in the hand that wasn't occupied by his cigarette made physical strength something of a footnote to the situation. At the other end of the alley, looking out into the street, stood a taller, thinner man; Sharpe had clearly made the stairs in good time.

There were two fire escapes on this side of the building; Vincent used the furthest one back to descend the same way he had climbed up. He landed in silence and circled around to approach the man from directly behind. He was nearly in striking distance when the man looked back over his shoulder; Vincent rushed the last pair of steps to bring the back of his hand down over the man's head. It didn't fell him, but a strike to his gut and another blow to his head did.

Vincent looked up and found Jacqueline watching from the window. She nodded at him and crawled out, then started helping the children through. Satisfied, he turned his attention to Sharpe, still stood oblivious at the other end of the alley. Catching him unawares him turned out to be easy enough, but Vincent took it slowly, carefully, to avoid any further mishaps. One solid, quick blow with his great strength sent the man to the ground, and it was only when Vincent's attention could shift from the careful task at hand that he realized it wasn't Sharpe at all. This man was tall and lanky, but with a rounded, young face and a shock of dark blond hair.

Vincent spun around, half expecting to see Sharpe in the alley behind him, but all was quiet. He heard police sirens then; of course the neighbors would have noticed the break-in and ensuing scuffle. But where was Sharpe? He had been so sure there were four of them. One driver, three passengers.

_And someone to watch the apartment and tell them when Brian returned_, his mind supplied. He snarled at the realization. Then where _was_ Sharpe?

A slow, seeping terror of suspicion began to spread through him, even before any specific ideas could take form.

A police car arrived then, lights flashing, and Vincent fled down the alley. A second set of red and blue lights reflecting off brick walls alerted him to the other car and forced him to take a circuitous route to avoid detection before he could get back on course. For all that his legs could pump with inhuman strength once he settled into a solid sprint, his need to go unseen slowed him down, and he reached his destination without seeing the others.

He tripped the latch and slid in through the window; everything was still, old tools and machinery lingering in idle shadow, but there was a light on in the next room, frightened voices, a whimper.

Vincent stalked the doorway and peered in, but it was clear his appearance was expected. Brian, Jacqueline, and Andrea huddled together on the other side of the room, which was little more than an antechamber between the workshop and the store rooms, now void of whatever it had held before the store closed. The gun Brian had liberated from one of their attackers lay useless a couple yards from his feet. Sharpe swung around enough for Vincent to see Melody held tight to his chest, the cold metal of his gun pressed to her temple. She didn't make a sound, but there was no ignoring the bright trails of tears streaking her face.

Vincent growled, low and long, his teeth bared.

"Call your dog off," Sharpe said.

His growl escalated into a snarl, but Brian cried out, "Vincent, _please_!"

Sharpe bore his own teeth in a cruel grin. "Vincent. It has a _name_. How charming. Do you pay him, or does he go to whoever feeds him the tastiest treats? I can do both, you know, Vincent. Give you all the lovely, little morsels you could want. Maybe starting with this one's little sister?"

Melody whimpered as Sharpe caressed her head with the tip of the gun.

A roar rose up out of his chest, but Vincent choked it back, fought back the darkness threatening to overcome sense and compassion. He willed himself to total silence, down even to the low rumble deep in his chest.

Sharpe mistook this sudden silence for interest in his offer. His grin widened. "Likes the kiddies, does he? We have something in common. Maybe I've made a new friend. What do you say, new friend?"

Vincent moved a step forward, his mind working in every direction to see what advantage he could gain from Sharpe's misunderstanding.

But Sharpe jerked back and leveled the gun at Vincent's head. "No, no, no, my vicious friend. You have to prove your loyalty first. Take care of the dame for me, and I'll not only let you live, but I'll let you choose your prize, too. Leave me Kessler, though, I need him alive a bit longer, I'm afraid."

Disgust and rage threatened to engulf him, but Vincent forced order into his thoughts. He looked at Jacqueline and Brian and Andrea. At least the gun was no longer on Melody; that was an improvement. If he played along and got himself between Sharpe and the other three, he could try to draw fire long enough for them to get away, but that did nothing for Melody. Unless he could get close enough to surprise Sharpe with a lunge, giving Brian and Jacqueline time to act, time to get to the gun on the floor? It was beyond risky, but refusing the offer outright had only one certain ending.

So he edged toward the other three, and subtly toward Sharpe, as well, his mind examining and reexamining the situation with every breath he drew, searching for anything he could use. Perhaps in "attacking" Jacqueline he could throw her down close to the gun on the floor.

"What's he doing?" Brian asked. "Jackie, what's he doing?"

Sharpe looked absolutely delighted at the uncertainty in Brian's voice, and Vincent had to look away from that sickening glee. He looked at Melody instead. He looked her in the eye, willing her to understand that he was still on her side. As terrified as she still appeared, some of the outright panic had dissolved as her mind came to terms with the situation, and she stared back lucidly, if not necessarily comprehendingly. Her eyes flicked to the gun and back to Vincent.

"Mm, perhaps you've already chosen your prize," Sharpe said, his tone just as full of white, gleaming teeth as his self-satisfied grin. He lifted his hand off Melody's shoulder, still pinning her with his elbow and forearm, to stroke her cheek with his fingertips.

She winced, and Vincent stopped moving, every muscle in him taut against the need to scream his fury and rush into battle. Melody met his gaze for a bare second, and it was all the warning he got before she shifted her face forward an inch and sank her teeth down into the tender flesh between Sharpe's thumb and index finger, clenching her jaw until drops of blood left red trails over the back of his hand. He screamed, and the gun went off, but the bullet flew into the ceiling.

Vincent was already surging forward, his suppressed roar exploding out of him to fill the room with rage incarnate, when Melody grabbed Sharpe's dominant wrist with both hands, forcing the gun upwards. The struggle between man and girl was brief, and with a couple of solid blows to her head, Melody sank to the ground, but Vincent was there by then. He grabbed Sharpe's wrist in his much more powerful hand and swiped at his face, opening three long gashes. He tightened his fingers around Sharpe's wrist and twisted, first until the gun fell to the ground, and then until the whole man gasped and dropped to his knees.

With his breath coming in harsh gusts, Vincent pushed back against the darkness, keeping it only just in check as he cocked his head to watch Sharpe writhe and moan at every little pressure applied to his wrist. How strange, that the flexing of Vincent's fingers, the slight shifting of his shoulder, had this dangerous man helpless on his knees. Vincent understood what this man was; he haunted the nightmares of so many children brought Below, walked as a phantom over the shoulders of broken men and women. The way he had held Melody, stroked her head, grinned to taste such vile words—Sharpe cried out then, harsh and pitiful, and Vincent realized he must have clenched his hand tighter. What power he had, to determine the fates of men.

No. Awareness flooded back into him, and he nearly dropped Sharpe completely, stunned to realize how quickly and effortlessly he'd descended. _No more blood_, he had promised himself. He promised it to himself again, and after a pair of steadying breaths to ensure that he held himself firmly in line, he hammered his free hand against Sharpe's jaw and released the limp body to the floor.

"Mel? Here, baby, it's Daddy. Look at me, baby. That's right. Good girl."

Vincent looked down to where Brian cradled his daughter's face in his hands, his brown eyes bright with unshed tears. Melody groaned and shifted, but she had no words, and her movements looked uncoordinated. Vincent knelt at her other side as Brian helped her sit up. Jacqueline stood clutching Andrea a few feet away. When Melody blinked and stared around, Vincent saw Sharpe's blood smeared across her mouth, and the darkness nearly welled up in him with new life, but he swallowed it back without a sound.

"Mel?" Brian said, his face only inches from hers. "Mel, talk to me, baby. Please. Are you all right?"

She hesitated, but then nodded a little, much to everyone's relief. She opened and closed her mouth, tasting, her eyes confused.

Brian helped her lean forward. "Spit, baby. Spit it out."

Comprehension settled in her, and she lurched forward on hands and knees to spit and wretch. Brian's hands moved through her hair, over her back, down to grasp her fingers, a steady stream of reassurance and love dropping from his mouth. When she started to fold in on herself, trembling, Brian tucked her in against his chest and let her sob. He used his sleeve to wipe at the dark stain on her lips before settling in to rock her back and forth.

When her sobs began to ease, Vincent spoke. "We can't linger here."

Brian nodded. Melody turned in his grasp to stare at Vincent, uncertainty in her gaze.

"You were very brave," Vincent told her, and she rewarded him with a weak, watery smile. "Can you stand?"

Brian helped her up, but she was unsteady on her feet.

Vincent stood as well. "We need to get her to Father, quickly."

"It's a long way," Jacqueline. "We'll have to carry them."

Melody's face was pale and drawn, a painful contrast to the stubborn red stain on her lips, and Andrea seemed to have shut down completely, awake at all only because of adrenaline, and only on her feet by her white-knuckled grip on Jacqueline's blouse.

"I can take Melody," Vincent said. "I'll make sure she stays awake until Father can have a look at her."

Brian looked at Vincent with evident distrust, but the logic was inescapably simple; the bigger man would more easily carry the bigger child, and Brian himself wasn't faring well with the strains of the day, or of the last weeks.

Vincent leaned down closer to Melody's height, finding her gaze to be lucid, if pained and exhausted. He regarded her with perfect solemnity. "Would you allow me to carry you Below, m'lady?"

She offered him the barest of smiles with her nod, and he treasured it as a triumph. He turned and knelt down to let her fasten her arms around his neck and her knees around his waist. But when he stood, Brian hadn't moved. He stood in place, staring at the prone form of their tormentor on the floor.

"I could finish this," he said. His face hardened. "I should." He reached down for the gun, but Vincent stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"No," Vincent said.

Brian turned on him, threw his hand off. "No? Why not? He killed my wife. He would have killed all of us. My Mel…"

"There has been enough death," Vincent said firmly.

Brian turned back toward the gun with a belligerent set of his jaw, but Vincent grabbed his arm, this time with unyielding force. "No," he said again. "It will bring you no peace."

"Yeah? What the hell do you—?" but he cut himself off as the force of Vincent's sorrowful gaze penetrated the haze of fear and grief and vengeance in his eyes.

"Can't we just _go_?" Melody asked into her father's long silence. "Please?"

Brian stared at his eldest daughter, then his youngest, before nodding. In silence, he gathered Andrea from Jacqueline and hoisted the girl up on his back. Without a further word, Vincent led the way Below.


	10. Chapter 10

Part X

Then tunnel entrance in this building was hidden by no more than a few empty crates and a metal door with a false padlock, and Vincent made a mental note to discuss something more secure with Mouse. The building would be sold or rented out to complete strangers at some point, and it was always better not to be surprised by these things.

A glance showed him that Andrea had already fallen into the deep, boneless sleep of young children, and he turned his attention to Melody, who was still awake, but listless. He hoped that the force of Sharpe's blows to her head hadn't been enough to cause real damage, but he also knew better than to take chances, especially with children. So he tried to strike up a conversation with her about her name, but her answers were short, and then she lost interest altogether. He changed course and segued into music, only to discover that, besides a few Christmas carols, they had absolutely no common point of reference on that topic, a fact which she clearly found most distressing.

"You've _never_ heard it?" she demanded too loudly next to his ear. "Never, ever? Don't you have _radios_ where you come from?"

"Radio waves don't pass through tons of solid rock," he answered.

"Mm," she answered with clear dissatisfaction. She tightened her grip with her arms and her legs, now less content to hang despondently. "But you _have_ to know it. It's the most romantic song _ever_."

He glanced at Jacqueline, who failed rather completely at hiding her amused smirk.

"Then I'm very sorry I've remained in ignorance for so long. Will you sing it for me?" This was actually the point of bringing up music to begin with; singing would keep her from dozing until Father could look at her, and remembering the words and tune would test her cognition.

"How about I teach it to you, and you can teach it to the others, 'kay?" Without waiting for an answer, she told him, "Okay, the first part sounds like this." She hummed a melody. "Right? Can you do that?" She hummed it again.

This wasn't exactly what he had had in mind. Brian's sudden interest in the scene playing out between his daughter and Vincent, and Jacqueline's sudden fascination with the wall to her left, did not bode well for his pride if he continued. But Melody was insistent, even enthusiastic, and it would meet his goal of keeping her engaged.

So he did his best to copy her melody. He knew the he had no great talent for music, but he could carry a tune, and Melody was satisfied.

"Okay, so then the first verse goes like this:

Jesse is a friend, yeah

I know he's been a good friend of mine.

But lately something's changed that ain't hard to define

Jesse's got himself a girl and I want to make her mine."

"This is a romantic song?" He was stalling. He caught Jacqueline's shoulders shaking, even as she kept her face turned away from him.

"It's _very_ romantic. It's that, what's that one word? Dad?" She turned to look at Brian. "You know, unra, um, unrek, you know, that one."

"Unrequited," Brian supplied with poorly concealed amusement.

"Yeah, that's the one. Unrequited love. It means when a boy falls in love with a girl, but the girl doesn't love him back. Isn't that sad? Anyway, so now it's your turn. Come on." She kicked Vincent twice with the heels of her shoes. "You have to go now."

"Unrequited love has been a common theme for writers and musicians for centuries," Vincent said instead. "In fact, it's said that the author of _The Divine Comedy_, Dante Alighieri, only met the woman he loved most in the world twice in his life."

"How can you know if you really love someone if you've only met them twice? Unless maybe it was two really _long_ meetings, like they went camping together for a week each time, or something. That's weird. Okay, now it's your turn. Here, it goes like this, remember?" She sang the first verse again.

His attempts at tactful evasion thusly thwarted, Vincent resigned himself to being coached through the first verse of "Jesse's Girl," much to the delight of both Jacqueline and Brian.

When they got to the chorus, Jacqueline, and then Brian, had mercy on him and joined in, alternately singing and laughing. If their voices were high and slightly manic, if their laughter was too intense for the situation and slightly hysterical, Vincent was simply grateful for the release after the terrors of the last hours. He knew the levity would disintegrate to nothing once they reached the home tunnels and started dealing with reality again, but this in-between time could offer some measure of comfort until then, a buffer, however slight, against the truth of this night.

Melody sang the loudest, finding satisfaction in volume, and they were just transitioning between concrete-lined tunnels and bare stone when Vincent _knew_ that something was desperately wrong, that the comfort he should feel in the descent had been subverted by something, someone—

"I hate to break up this wonderful, little sing-along," a cold, self-satisfied voice called from behind them, and an icy silence lodged in all four throats. The three adults whirled around, horrified to find Sharpe a dozen yards down the tunnel, his pistol raised. The side of his face had swollen and started to discolor where Vincent had struck him, which precluded the nasty grin from earlier, but his eyes glinted all the more dangerously, even in the dim light. "But I think we've come far enough."

Melody's arms tightened to a strangle-hold around Vincent's neck, but he pried them apart, forcing the girl to slide down off his back. He reached one hand out to keep her behind him, a low rumbling starting in his chest.

"Now, none of that," Sharpe said. "You're much too interesting to kill outright, but," he shrugged. He raised the pistol, and with a decisive cock of his head, he fired.

The explosion of the shot filled the narrow corridor, and as the cacophony faded from everyone's ears, Vincent stumbled backwards, clutching his right shoulder and only just missing treading on Melody. He dropped to his knees, the harsh grunts of his breathing loud in the sudden silence. The burning pain, the incomprehensible shock of the wound, overrode his every sense for long moments before his mind began to clear enough to form anything like coherent thoughts. He pressed the heel of his hand tightly against the flow of blood and flinched away when someone touched him.

"Vincent? Vincent, it's okay. It's just me. Vincent? God, that's bleeding fast. Okay. Okay. We'll get help. Hang on."

Vincent raised his head enough to look into Dominic's pale, half-panicked face. The pain slowed Vincent's thoughts down to a crawl, and he spent several seconds trying to take in the scene around him and understand the pieces; Sharpe lay on the ground once again where he had stood only moments before. Dominic had dropped his sentry staff when he knelt before Vincent. Brian still had a wide-eyed Andrea clinging to his back. Jacqueline cradled Melody against her, whispering soothingly into her hair.

"I heard you guys on my rounds, but then I saw him. So I followed him," Dominic explained in a rush. "I wanted to warn you, but he would have heard me behind him if I did. I was waiting till I could get back to the outpost. Oh, man. I'm sorry, Vincent. I should have done something sooner. Oh, man. Can you stand? We have to get you down to Father. He's going to kill me. I mean, after Winslow does first."

Vincent didn't answer immediately. His mind was still focused on the unconscious man on the ground, the man he had left alive to follow them into their sanctuary. Finally, he looked up at Dominic again. "Take Brian and his family down to your post."

"But—"

"Send word to Father. I'll be there in a moment."

"You're hurt."

"I'll be all right."

Dominic didn't argue further, but he also didn't move.

Vincent leaned toward him and looked him in the eye. "Dominic, I'll be all right, thanks to you. Now I need you to take care of our friends and send word to Father. Please."

Dominic nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Okay."

He grabbed his staff from where he'd laid it next to him and stood. "Okay, all of you, come with me."

Brian herded his girls after Dominic and out of sight. Jacqueline lingered, but gave in at his look.

With the wall for support, Vincent stood and stared at Sharpe. This man had seen too much. His heart was too tainted to keep their secrets. What choice was there?

Vincent hung his head, hating the moment he found himself caught in. There would be no darkness, no _other_, to blame. This would be done clear and sober.

Others would come. More guns. More violence. More blood. The blood of his family, his brothers and sisters, the children they raised with the promise of something greater, something lasting and beautiful. Their world would crumple and die if this man took their secret away with him. And there was no one to protect them, except themselves. Except Vincent. He had allowed this stranger to follow him this far down. This was his responsibility.

He left the wall and knelt down beside Sharpe, who groaned and started to shift. Before he could think about it too clearly, Vincent reached down with both hands, took hold of the Sharpe's head, and twisted past the point of resistance, until he felt a snap. He shuddered as the man's head fell limp from his grasp, one final breath seeping from the newly dead body. Vincent closed his eyes and waited for the nausea and the pain in his shoulder to subside.

"He was a monster."

Vincent looked down the corridor, at Brian standing a dozen yards away.

"He was a man," Vincent countered.

"You could have used the gun."

"Would that have made his death any less my responsibility?"

"You had no choice. Your world, he would have—"

"Yes."

Brian said nothing further.

With his good hand, Vincent pulled the bottom of his shirt out from the waist of his trousers. It was awkward, but he managed to get the hem up to his teeth to tear the fabric; from there he could rip a large swath of unbloodied cloth inch by inch with the fingers of his good hand. He was reminded all too clearly of the events of that very afternoon as he rolled up the cloth and passed it under the collar of his shirts and vest, to press against the wound in his shoulder.

Brian crossed the distance between them and knelt down. "What can I do to help?"

Vincent considered. Finally, he pushed Father's cloak off of his good shoulder and teased the seam of his shirt out from under his vest. Again using his teeth to start a tear, he pulled this sleeve off, much as he had done for Mouse. Brian tugged the sleeve down and off of his arm, and a little more careful tearing had the fabric torn into two long pieces.

"I need you to bind my shoulder tightly, to slow the bleeding."

Brian nodded his understanding, and at Vincent's direction, used both strips of cloth to press the makeshift bandage against the seeping wound.

With a deep, steadying breath, Vincent pushed himself to his feet, and before he was halfway up, Brian had grabbed his good elbow to help. He pulled Vincent's arm over his shoulders to take what weight he could.

"Thank you," Vincent said as they started walking.

"You saved our lives," Brian said after a minute or two of pained progress down the corridor. "After what I did, the things I said, you came for us. Why?"

"You would have died," he said because it was the simplest, the most obvious.

"Not much of a loss to you."

"You don't deserve to die for your mistakes, Brian."

After a few more slow steps, he said, "I'll tell them all that I killed Sharpe."

"No good will come out of lying," Vincent answered.

"It really is a whole 'nother world down here."

They were nearing the sentry alcove; Vincent could hear Dominic's quick tapping and Jacqueline singing a low, soothing tune.

Brian stopped suddenly, and Vincent lifted his head enough to regard him in silent askance.

"I'm sorry," Brian said. When Vincent had no response to offer, he went on. "I never said that to you. And…and, if I'm honest, I wasn't before. Father was right; I didn't understand what I had done. Not really. I think I'm starting to now. I'm sorry, Vincent."

"What happened today was no single person's fault. Our—"

"The knife was in my hand," Brian answered grimly, firmly.

Vincent nodded and started them moving forward again. "You're forgiven, Brian."

Dominic ducked out of the sentry alcove then to meet them. "Winslow says he's on his way. What should I do about the intruder?"

"Leave him," Vincent said.

"But—"

"The others will take care of Sharpe. I need you to stay here, Dominic. Keep to your post and make sure that no one else finds their way Below until the entrance is secured."

"But I—"

"Look, kid—"

"Dominic," the young man informed Brian sharply.

"Dominic," Brian amended. "Your quick thinking saved our lives already. Vincent needs to know he can count on you to keep watch for him now."

Vincent regarded the other man with more than slight surprise, but he tried to hide it away when Dominic looked to him for confirmation. He nodded. "Please, Dominic."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. No one's getting past here."

"Thank you. Please, tell Jacqueline to bring Andrea and Melody; we're going Below."

Dominic nodded and disappeared.

"You don't want him to see the body," Brian observed quietly.

Vincent closed his eyes against the truth of that deception. "It's not the way for him to learn. When the crisis is past—when we can talk—when the Council understands—then."

"And the body?"

"Sharpe's remains will likely be thrown into the Abyss."

"You all have an abyss?"

Jacqueline appeared with one girl firmly in each hand, and they restarted their exhausted, pained descent.

Brian snorted. "Of course you all have an abyss down here. Why wouldn't you? I bet the only thing you don't have down here is an old pirate shipwreck."

"That would be difficult to imagine," Vincent conceded.

They shuffled on in silence. Corridors that Vincent usually traversed with hardly a thought suddenly stretched long and arduous ahead of them. He had begun to adjust to the burning pain in his shoulder and the way that the ache seemed to radiate everywhere until it hurt even to breathe. Some small part of his mind even manage to find perverse humor in the way that the knife wound in his forearm, so effectively ignored during the crises of the evening, now throbbed with a malice that even the bullet in his shoulder couldn't overshadow. And no doubt Father would scold him back into prepubescence if he had torn any of his stiches out—nor did he hold out much honest hope that he hadn't.

Eventually, he heard voices ahead of them. After another few moments, Winslow, James, and Ernesto were hurrying up the tunnel toward them.

Winslow took Brian's place under Vincent's arm without preamble. Once he had himself situated, he said, "If you survive tonight, Vincent, I swear I'm gonna kill you in the morning."

With the relief of placing most of his weight on Winslow's shoulders, far more than Brian could take, Vincent drudged up a small smile. "I'll survive."

"Yeah, well, it won't be for your good sense or your efforts of self-preservation. This intruder, where is he?"

"He's dead," Vincent answered, all traces of mirth gone. He shared a sidelong look with Winslow, who nodded his understanding.

"We'll take care of it," Ernesto said grimly. "Glad you made it back, Vincent."

With a nod, James followed him up the tunnel.

With Winslow's strength, the journey back home progressed much faster. Brian and Jacqueline had each taken one of the children on their backs, and it was with immense relief that everyone approached the hospital chamber. Father was there and waiting to fuss and exclaim over Vincent and the danger he had put himself in, but the younger man implored him to silence.

"Melody was struck over the head, Father," Vincent said. "You must see to her first."

"You've been shot," Father protested. "The bleeding alone—" but he met Vincent's look, and as a doctor, he nodded. He left his son to Mary's care.

She helped him to remove Father's cloak first, then eased him into a chair behind a screen to help him remove the makeshift bandage and his shirts. She clucked over the bullet hole, which was still seeping red blood to darken and congeal on his skin and in the thick mat of hair that covered most of his torso. It made him lightheaded just to look—that is, if it wasn't the bleeding making him lightheaded—but he tried to assure her that it looked worse than it was.

"You'll need replacements for these, as well," Mary said with a small sigh as she bundled up the remains of his blood-soaked shirts.

Vincent ducked his head at the reminder of how much clothing he'd managed to ruin in a single day, a heedless waste of precious resource. Even with what was salvageable, he would essentially have newly made shirts in the end. It was far from the end of their world, he knew, but it would be a needless frustration.

Seeing his reaction, Mary clasped his good hand in one of hers. "Oh, don't listen to me complaining, Vincent. We're just happy you came back to us. A few shirts are nothing to that."

Father came around the screen then, and Vincent avoided meeting his gaze.

"Mary, the children are exhausted and frightened," Father said. "Would you see to making them comfortable?"

"Of course." She gave Vincent's hand one last squeeze and left them.

"Melody?" Vincent asked as Father settled down next to him and leaned in to frown over the damage.

"Fine, fine. I'll see her again in the morning, to be sure, but there's no sign of serious damage. This bullet will have to come out immediately. And you're staying here tonight; I won't have you moving even as far as the end of the bed in your condition. I'm surprised you're still conscious." He said this last as though he believed that his son's alertness was an intentional affront to his medical knowledge. "And you've torn your stitches, no doubt."

Vincent followed his glance down to the bandage around his forearm, the crisp white marred by deep red blots.

"Father, the intruder, the man who followed us—"

Father's hands stilled, and he sighed. "I know. Winslow told me. And Mister Kessler. Vincent, you had no choice."

"I know that."

Father nodded, his hands and his expression suddenly more gentle. "Then we'll leave it there for the time being. I'm glad you came back to us at all."

"So am I, Father."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Argh, this whole "job" thing really cuts into my fic-writing time! Also, this chapter just did not want to end. By the time I got to the part I'd already drafted in the original, I had to cut it off halfway through that scene, as this chapter is already more than a thousand words longer than what used to be the longest chapter. But characters kept appearing and needing to say things, in between the bits I actually needed to happen. Talk about tunnel dwellers that just barge right in…

Anyway, I did want to say I had a lot of fun trawling WFOL 2012 and chatting with the people there. It's an impressive set-up those candlemakers put together! I'm looking forward to next year :)

And now, the fic.

Part XI

Vincent slept for fourteen hours. It was mid-afternoon when he woke, his entire right side stiff and aching, but his body was strengthened and rested overall. He found a water pitcher and two overstuffed sandwiches on thick slices of heavy bread at his bedside; William knew his appetite well. With vague memories of a tepid, half-eaten supper almost a day ago, Vincent had polished off the first sandwich before it even occurred to him to pour himself a cup of water. After he set the pitcher back down with a light _thunk_, he heard rustling on the other side of the chamber, beyond the privacy screens around his bed.

"Vincent?" Mouse called. "Awake?"

This was a conversation that Vincent didn't feel ready for yet; there was little that troubled Mouse so deeply as being ignored or turned away. It reminded him too much of the dark silence of his early childhood, when his natural desire for care and attention had been nothing more than an aching hollow, a quiet torture in his endless night Below. Vincent was ashamed to have been so careless the evening before, when Mouse looked to him most of all, trusted him most of all, as the gentle voice that had invited him into the light, to be a child in a community that loved him in his presence and missed him in his absence. If Mouse's hero worship bothered Vincent, it was nothing to the shocked hurt those trusting eyes could reflect.

"Yes, Mouse, I'm awake. How are you feeling?"

"Bored," Mouse answered at once, his tone conveying only a mild frustration and none of the hurt or anger Vincent had feared. "Can't get up. Father says. Sends people to spy."

"Your wound is a very serious one."

"_Bored_," Mouse insisted. "Tell me a story, please?" His voice rose plaintively, and Vincent sensed his need for familiar, comforting words more than for entertainment. "About the lady in the tower. The one that rhymes."

"_The Lady of Shalott_?" Vincent guessed; Mouse's attention to literature had included little patience for structure or convention, and so poetry tended to be categorized simply as stories or ideas that rhymed. Unrhymed poetry just didn't get separated from prose at all. "I'm afraid even I don't have that one fully memorized."

"The one about the sword, then."

He smiled; _Jabberwocky_ had always been a particular favorite among many of the children, and Mouse was no exception. Vincent had found himself so well acquainted with the poem after countless recitations that he had once amused Father and Peter over supper by trying to recite it backwards. After a few false starts, he had made rather a good show of it.

And so, after a couple hasty gulps of water, 'twas brillig, and Mouse relaxed in his bed. The poem finished, Mouse didn't press for any more, and Vincent took the opportunity to eat the second sandwich.

Michael came in as he was finishing and looked happy to see him awake.

"Father said you'd be awake soon," the boy said. "But I'm to tell you that you're not allowed out of bed until Father sends someone to help you to your chamber. And that's only because you'll sleep better in your own bed." Michael grinned. "Then Edward said you've got a head like stone and the common sense of a particularly photophilic moth, and it's a wonder we've been able to keep you alive this long, but I wasn't s'posed to repeat that part."

"Nor will I tell either Edward or Father about your accidental slip," Vincent vowed solemnly, certain that Edward had fully intended for the words to be repeated when he uttered them in Michael's hearing.

Michael's grin widened. "Is that really a word, 'photophilic?' Sometimes I think Edward just makes things up."

Vincent had to smile at that; Edward was absolutely notorious for telling the children tall tales and swearing to their truth, and Michael was just at that age when he knew enough to begin suspecting, but not enough to fully understand.

"Edward does indeed have a habit of…exaggerating at times. But I believe 'photophilic' is a real word, though it has more to do with botany than anything."

"It means someone who loves the sun, right?" Like Vincent, Michael had always had a proclivity for words, and his new pleasure in the last months had become words that he could figure out from their Greek or Latin parts.

"Someone who likes _light_," Vincent corrected.

"Oh! Like 'photograph.' Neat!" He checked the water pitcher and picked up the empty plate off the nightstand before leaving, but he paused at the screen to look over his shoulder. "I'm really glad you're okay, Vincent."

He disappeared then, his shoes scuffing the floor as he hurried through the chamber with a quick goodbye to Mouse.

Regardless of Father's warning, there was a conversation that needed to be had before much more time passed, and Vincent was not going to have it across a chamber and through several privacy screens.

Despite the deep, aching pain of his wounds, Vincent found that his legs were sturdy and well able to carry him the distance from his bed to the chair at Mouse's bedside. He looked better than he had the evening before, more alert, but he was still pale, and he didn't move more than his head.

"Breaking the rules?" he asked happily. "To see Mouse?"

"I wanted to see that you are well," Vincent answered, "and to talk about what happened yesterday."

"Oh. Should have used big stick, huh? Next time."

Clearly, Winslow had been to see Mouse that morning.

"I sincerely hope there won't be a next time," Vincent answered. "Mouse, I need to apologize for last night—"

"Father explained. Okay. Topsider hurt you, too. Bad. Worse, maybe?"

Even for Mouse, this was an odd observation to make; the fact that he was lying immobile in the hospital chamber while Vincent had crossed the distance to sit beside him could not have escaped his admittedly scattered attention. Manmade contrivances like the hours in a day and the finer points of social etiquette were regularly disregarded as entirely unimportant and therefore a waste of time and effort to observe, but Mouse had an impressive focus and understanding when it came to the facts of the world around him.

"My arm will heal quickly," Vincent said. "It's your injuries that we've been so worried about."

"Not your arm," Mouse answered impatiently. "Skin, muscle, heal themselves. No problem. Other hurts. Worse hurts. Don't go away."

_Hurts that don't go away_ had long been Mouse's euphemism for scars left by the events of his earliest childhood that left him scrounging for food on the streets and eventually in the tunnels Below. He had shared some few details of those events with Vincent in rare candid moments as a boy and left a few more hints scattered along the way to be picked up and fit into place, but it was a topic tacitly understood as closed and unacknowledged by all who knew Mouse well enough to wonder. Vincent took this oblique reference to past hurts with due solemnity

"Saw it last night," Mouse continued into Vincent's silence. Then he frowned almost comically. "Never run from _me_ before."

"What happened yesterday…bothered me greatly, and I'm sorry that I let it upset you."

"Not upset. Worried."

Even as the person who knew Mouse best of anyone, Vincent still found himself a little caught off guard, and he had to remind himself that, though the process was in many superficial ways different from his peers', Mouse was indeed growing into a young man.

"Thank you, Mouse. But in the future, you shouldn't worry for me. Please."

Mouse set his jaw obstinately, and his brows drew low together in a stormy frown. "Have to. Friends."

Footsteps saved Vincent from having to answer, and a moment later, Pascal and Rebecca appeared around the screen.

"I told you he wouldn't be in his bed, no matter what Father ordered," Rebecca said in an entirely audible aside to Pascal.

"Yeah. I'm surprised he's still in the hospital chamber at all," Pascal answered in the same would-be private tone.

"Broke Father's rules to see Mouse," the young man informed them proudly.

"How are you, Mouse?" Pascal asked.

"Good. Fine. Can't get up. Bored."

"I've come to read to you," Rebecca told him, proffering a handful of books for his perusal.

"Vincent? Read?"

"I'm under orders from Father to take Vincent back to his chamber to rest," Pascal said at once.

"After supper," Vincent said to forestall the disappointment descending over Mouse's face. "I'll come back and read to you." He rested his good hand on Mouse's shoulder for a moment before pushing himself to his feet and starting an unusually slow pace through the chamber.

"Father's not going to like that," Pascal said in a real undertone once they were a little distance from the screens around Mouse's bed. "How are you doing, anyway?"

"Sore," Vincent answered.

"Well, you look terrible," the smaller man offered cheerfully.

Vincent's retort was cut short when they left the chamber and found Brian in the corridor just beyond.

Brian looked up from his pacing, stopping short at the sight of Vincent in the doorway. He looked surprised, then he lowered his face, chagrined.

"I, um, thought I should talk to the kid. Mouse," he all but mumbled.

Knowing Pascal as well as he did, Vincent could all but hear him recalculating his estimation of Brian, adding a few points to the top. Down the corridor, Joshua and a few of the other teenagers stood watching with open distrust; Vincent wondered if they had shadowed Brian since morning, self-appointed guardians.

For his part, Brian looked little better than he had the night before, but his fear was plaited with a strong cord of resolve, even as he dithered on the threshold—he hadn't turned back, either.

In a pointed gesture of solidarity, Vincent placed his good hand on Brian's shoulder. "You've given yourself a difficult task."

Brian nodded. "Yeah, well, guess that makes it really important, huh? Is he awake?"

"He should be," Pascal said. "Vincent, I need to have a word with our young audience." He nodded down the corridor. "Why don't you show Brian the way?"

With a look to say that he understood Pascal's meaning entirely, Vincent turned back into the hospital chamber and led the way to where Mouse lay, Rebecca sitting in a chair on the far side of the bed. Both offered a pleasant greeting when Vincent first appeared around the privacy screen, but Rebecca's eyes went wide with surprise when Brian joined him. Mouse gave Brian a malicious scowl before shifting his gaze away from him altogether to focus on Vincent.

"Stranger. Topsider. Doesn't belong." His gaze flicked back to Brian just long enough to size him up and find him entirely unworthy. "Doesn't understand."

"Mouse," Vincent said. "Brian has come here to ask for your forgiveness."

"Look, kid, I'm really—" Brian was stopped by the strength of Mouse's glare, but he rallied and pushed on with more care and greater solemnity. "Mouse. I'm sorry. That's all I have to offer you. What happened yesterday…I can't tell you how terrible I feel. 'Terrible' isn't even the right word for what I..." He raised his right palm to stare at it, as though the knife still rested there. "I don't know how to tell you…just, I know you don't have to forgive me. I don't think I'd forgive me. But I _am_ sorry. I'm so sorry for what I did to you. For hurting you. And I needed you to know that."

Some of the anger in Mouse's eyes faded, but that only left a deeper, harsher distrust. "Hurt Vincent more."

"Brian and I have made our peace, Mouse," Vincent said.

"Just another Topsider who doesn't see, doesn't understand," Mouse insisted. "Didn't _look_."

Brian frowned in the way that most newcomers did when confronted with Mouse's fragments. And, also like most newcomers, he made the simplest inference instead of the most logical one.

"I saw you there, but it was too late. I know it's a sorry excuse, but there was no way I could stop in time. I _tried_. You were just _there_."

"He means when you decided Vincent was going to have Jamie for lunch," Rebecca said impatiently. "You didn't _look_. Like any Topsider, you saw something you didn't understand, so you wanted to destroy it."

Hot shame rolled through Brian; Vincent could see it in his face, feel it radiating out into the space around him. The heat of it quickly built into bright flames of anger and denial, but that faded almost as quickly as it had sparked to life, and he dropped his eyes.

"Brian has the chance to learn now," Vincent said. "If there are those who are willing to teach him?"

"Won't," Mouse said.

"Mouse—"

"I _won't_!" he snapped, and the malice in him surprised even Vincent. Mouse continued sullenly, glaring up at the ceiling, "Tired now. Should go. Father says to rest."

"Yeah. Father's right. You should rest. I hope you feel better soon." Brian backed away a few steps before striding quickly out of the room.

Mouse's gaze drifted down from the ceiling but darted straight back up when he found Vincent watching him. Rebecca met Vincent's look impassively.

With nothing left to say, he left the hospital chamber, finding Pascal leaning against the wall just outside and the young people conspicuously missing.

"I gather it didn't go very well."

Vincent spared a look for Pascal's sardonic tone, but didn't rise to it. "Mouse is angry. Too angry for understanding."

Pascal pushed himself upright from the wall to fall into stride with his friend. "Aren't we all?"

Vincent glanced at him sidelong.

"He tried to _kill_ you, Vincent."

"Yes. I was there."

"Look, I'll give him credit for facing Mouse. That took mettle. But it's like he threatened all of us when he attacked you. Sometimes, I think you forgive too quickly."

"Brian is no threat to anyone anymore."

"I'm not talking about whether or not he's a threat, Vincent. I'm talking about _forgiving_ him for what he's already done."

"I have no use for holding a grudge."

"I have no use for Keats or Frost, but that's never stopped me. Sometimes they just feel right."

The remaining journey was short, and they made it in the silence of men who had known each other too long and liked each other too well to argue where neither could gain ground, effectively closing the matter for the time being. Vincent entered his chamber, intent on a bath and clean clothes, injuries and bandages be damned, and Pascal hovered by the doorway.

"Father will wait about twenty minutes after I tell him you're safely back in your chamber before he comes to check on you," Pascal said.

Vincent pulled his head out of his wardrobe to peer at the smaller man for a moment before smiling at the prediction. "You think I shouldn't be too hasty in defying his orders."

"I think you should be _wise_ in defying his orders. Do you want company?"

"No," Vincent answered, grateful to have no need to spare Pascal's feelings with courteous words or excuses; it had been an honest question that required an honest answer.

"Then I'm going back to the pipes. At least _try_ to take it easy, Vincent."

Vincent raised his good hand in farewell.

The rest of the next few days were slow, punctuated mostly by Father's scolding litanies of what was considered too strenuous for both Mouse and Vincent to do while they healed. Taken off of work schedules and sentry shifts, Vincent had no reason to leave the central hub, and he even made an effort to keep (mostly) off his feet for a solid two days.

He fell into a daily routine, visiting Mouse after breakfast and after supper; their conversation was strained for the first few minutes the next time they saw each other after Brian's apology, but neither pressed the subject with the other, and as with Pascal, the matter was closed. Vincent conducted his classes from a chair, knowing that Father had his sources of information among the children, and he made a point of sharing at least the afternoon meal with Brian in an effort to ease the newcomer's way into the community. He understood what Pascal had tried to tell him enough to see that acceptance would be slow and hard-won, but over the course of the following week, Melody and Andrea showed clear signs of beginning to settle into life Below and in among the other children, and Brian found the tunnel dwellers to be generally courteous, if cool and a little suspicious.

Between meals and lessons, Vincent seldom found himself alone for very long; an endless stream of well-wishers over the first couple of days turned into a trickle of hesitant, troubled conversations about any number and range of daily problems among his family members. For all that he had spent every day of the previous weeks Below dedicated to the service of his community, he began to realize just how completely he'd cut himself off from those he loved most dearly. It seemed that everyone had surprising bits of news and developments in their lives, and Vincent had managed to miss nearly all of it in a way that he never had before. He tried to apologize for his many lapses, but no one seemed to mind or even notice, instead being happy just to have him back and in their confidence. The realization humbled him and left him grateful anew for their love and acceptance.

Evenings found Vincent in Father's chamber, first to read to the children, who were all happy to have more of his attention than usual, and then to talk late into the night over tea and chess. Sometimes their conversations strayed over the too-recent traumas, but most of their discussions left the recent fear and violence as a mutually understood point of silence between them, acknowledged with a look or a gesture but seldom brought to light.

On Sunday evening, as Vincent was taking a final poetry request from a group of children that included Melody, but, conspicuously, not Andrea, who remained wary and skittish around him, Brian appeared in the doorway of Father's chamber. He leaned against the rock wall while Vincent read, and when the children filed out, he kissed the top of Melody's head and sent her off to bed.

"I can't believe my Mel sits still for a whole hour for anything," Brian said with the kind of contrived lightness that suggested he had come to discuss something very specific and most assuredly uncomfortable.

"She's settling in well," Vincent agreed as he moved to tidy the chamber for the evening. If he was careful, he had limited mobility of his right arm without pain from the wound in his shoulder, but Brian's knife had bit down deep into muscles he needed to flex and tense his fingers. His quick metabolism had done a great deal to heal both injuries, but he was likely to be maddeningly one-handed for another few days yet.

Brian came down the steps and invited himself to a chair; he was becoming accustomed to the informality of Tunnel etiquette. "Where's Father? I didn't think he ever left this chamber. I figured Mary just dusted him off with the rest of the furniture every week."

It was an apt image. Smiling slightly, Vincent carried a couple books to the European history…mess, and after a moment's dismay, gave up and set the Weimar Republic between the Black Plague and the French Revolution. He really did have to do something about that, before any of the children left Father's chamber with a very confused notions about the orders and locations of past events.

"Father goes Above to have supper with a friend of his from time to time. I expect him home soon, if he and Peter haven't started arguing politics." Another look around the chamber, and Vincent's good intentions deserted him. One-handed or not, the task was a fruitless one, and he spared a moment to marvel at Mary's patience for it. "Tea?"

"No, thanks. I see Mouse is up and about now—more than he should be, by the looks of it."

Vincent eased himself into a chair and settled back carefully, still finding himself fatigued by the end of the day; clearly his three weeks of sleep deprivation and skipped meals were not helping matters. "Mouse has always worked on his own schedule. Trying to make him do otherwise usually creates more problems than it solves."

"He's kind of an odd kid," Brian observed, glancing at Vincent to gauge his reaction. "Everyone really likes him, though, huh?"

Vincent nodded, content to follow Brian's lead until they reached whatever destination he had in mind. "Mouse is special to us. We found him as a boy, stealing food from us, watching us, growing up alone in the darkness beyond the inhabited tunnels."

"How'd he get down here?"

"The details of his life before he came to us are largely unknown." This was, in fact, a true statement; that Vincent was one of the very few who was privy to any of those details could be pointedly omitted to cut that particular thread of conversation.

"I guess you get a lot of kids with a rough past down here."

Vincent nodded, but said nothing; Brian had started rapping a nervous rhythm on the arm of the chair with the backs of his fingers, a rise in outward agitation that usually implied a person was coming to the heart of the matter.

"So, do you have room for two more? For a little while?" Brian asked.

"Melody and Andrea?"

Brian nodded and looked away. "You're right, they're settling in here. It's not even a week, and I keep seeing…it's little things. They're sleeping better. They're starting to smile again, and to talk more. I didn't even realize how quiet they'd gone. And I've started thinking, maybe they'll really be all right. Not just hoping, but really thinking it's possible. This place is good for them. You people have been so good to them. They need to stay. They need to be safe."

"You would leave them here, with us?" Vincent asked, a little tentatively; this was surely what Brian was implying, but it made no sense. "Where would you go?"

"Back up topside. I think Maddie had copies of some of the financial stuff. I have ideas, where they might be. She never said anything to me. 'Least, not that I understood then." He passed his hand over his face. "I don't know if she just didn't want to worry me, or if she thought I wouldn't listen, or if she thought she could protect us by not telling us, or maybe if she _tried_ to tell me, and I just wasn't listening…I don't know. But Jackie's the one she told. I've been resenting Jackie for that." He paused at that thought, seemed to focus on it for a moment, examine it, before he shook his head and continued. "We thought Sharpe got to her before she could go to the police. I found out the hard way Sharpe got to her _because_ she went to the police. But Jackie thinks there were copies, and knowing Maddie, I think she's right. And Sharpe must have thought so, too. That's why they trashed the apartment, why he wanted me alive."

They observed a grim moment of silence for the terror of that night and the tragedy of his wife's death before Brian surged up out of his chair and paced a few steps.

"I can't hide down here forever, Vincent. Those bastards are still out there, going on, business as usual, when our whole lives, mine, the girls'…Maddie…" He swallowed and regrouped. "I can't just let it go. They have to be stopped. I know…I know I've been rash." He glanced at Vincent's arm and away again. "More than rash." He smiled a grim, derisive smile. "I thought I was being so strong, you know. I really did. I had a gun, and I was going to be the big man, protect the girls, avenge my Maddie, take on the drug smugglers and all the crooked cops in the city. I was going to kill Sharpe and anyone that got in my way. Turns out I was just lashing out, scared like a mutt backed into a corner. Turns out I didn't even know what strong is, till I got a real up-close-and-personal demonstration."

"No one can carry the weight of the world on his shoulders alone, Brian," Vincent said. "Our world is strong because we all rely on each other, trust and do for each other."

"There isn't anything I can do for you guys to pay you guys back. Not yet."

"It isn't your time to help us. You're still healing, and we have no needs that you can meet."

"You think I shouldn't go back Above yet, that I'm not ready."

Vincent considered his answer for a moment before speaking. "I can't tell you what's in your own heart; only you can know that. But your daughters need their father; you'll all heal faster together than apart."

"I can't just _sit_," Brian protested.

"We have Helpers Above who might be able to help you, even while you remain Below."

Brian pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked backwards and forward on his feet. "You're saying I shouldn't try going at this alone anymore. I should try and trust you guys to help."

Vincent lifted his left hand, palm up with a one-shouldered shrug.

Brian paced a bit more, this time slowly, his hands still in his pockets, his frown contemplative. "I don't know. I don't know yet. I'll think about it." He stopped and turned to Vincent. "But first I need to _know_ my girls will be safe. If I ask the Council, will you speak for me? God knows, no one wants to listen to me. But you, people here listen to you. They respect you."

"No one will turn your daughters out to the streets, Brian; it's not our way. They have a place here among us as long as they need it."

"I need to hear it from the Council. I have to be _sure_."

"Then hear it from me, Mister Kessler," Father said from the top of the metal steps by the main doorway.

Vincent stood to pull Father's preferred chair around for him. With a hand under his elbow, Vincent helped Father to sit, knowing how the long trek to Peter's aggravated his hip.

When they were all settled again—Brian stowed his own agitation and sat—Father spoke again. "No one will put Melody and Andrea out, as long as they have need of this place. They will be cared for and loved with the rest of our children. You have my word on that."

Brian stared at him for a long moment, his mouth slightly open, but he shut it quickly and spoke solemnly, "I can't tell you how much that means to me. After everything—I mean, the start we got off to—I mean—I've thought about what you said, that day, and all I know is, if anyone ever tried to do anything to Andy or Mel…well, the guy sure as hell wouldn't be sitting in my library, I can tell you that."

"I appreciate that, Mister Kessler," Father said.

"Brian, please."

"Brian. The circumstances of your arrival are not…easy to ignore or forget, but Vincent assures me, assures all of us, that that is not the man you are."

Brian's gaze flicked to Vincent again, brief and grateful.

"And indeed," Father continued, "these last few days, we have begun to see that Vincent is right, and we are thankful that there will be no lasting harm. For any of us."

"I know it doesn't make up for what I did, but anything I can do, any help I can be to anyone, I will. Just ask. I owe you everything."

"You owe us nothing," Vincent answered.

"We'd be dead—"

"Vincent is right," Father said. "Though, we will no doubt find somewhere that you will be useful for the time that you spend with us. I agree with Vincent that you and your girls will all do better to remain here for some time. The troubles of Above will be there when you are ready to face them, but this is a place of healing. And as my son has seen fit to remind me, to remind all of us, sometimes it is those who do the most harm who need the most help. You _are_ welcome to remain among us, Brian. And Melody and Andrea will always have a place with us."

"I don't know what to say, Father."

Vincent smiled. "Say that you are grateful."

Brian's cheeks flushed. "I am. Of course I am. I'm grateful to both of you. More than I have words to tell you." He looked at Vincent. "I'll think about what you said. Thank you."

Vincent stood, and Brian took the hint. They shook hands, then Brian shook hands with Father in farewell.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Well, I've finally wrestled this one into submission. Next chapter should be the end, though I'm starting to have some concerns about length. But, if Vincent can refrain from brooding for a few pages, I might just be in the clear :)

Oh, also, there are meant to be two hiatuses (hiati?) in this chapter, but ff.n doesn't like them. So...I guess just imagine that they're there...

And now, enjoy…

Part XII

After seeing Brian out, Vincent returned to his chair with a sigh; sitting back eased the steady ache that developed in his shoulder by the end of the day.

"How was your visit with Peter?" he asked.

"Fine, fine," Father answered. "I even saw Susan for a few minutes. She sends her love, by the way. They were both appalled by what had happened here this week."

Vincent leaned his head back and let his eyes drift shut, contented with the soothing quiet of the late hour. "I understand that's the common response."

"You were right, though, about Brian. He's not the man we took him for in the beginning."

"He was lost when he came to us," Vincent observed. "But like so many others, this world you've created is helping him to find his way again."

"Now we both know the rest of us have done little but watch. You've done all the helping."

Vincent smiled and spoke loftily, "Am I not a part of this world you've created, Father?"

Father _harrumphed_ his son's blatant abuse of semantics, but said nothing. Silence settled between them, comfortable and unhurried. After a span of long moments, he shifted in his chair and spoke with more gravity than their conversation seemed to warrant. "But Brian did have one good point, earlier."

Vincent raised his head.

"Our people do respect you. They do listen to you."

"Sometimes," Vincent conceded.

Father snorted. "Sometimes. You know, modesty taken too far begins to sound false."

Vincent took to the verbal sparring easily, almost lazily. "There is nothing false in the word. There are times when I'm heard and heeded, there are times when I'm not. So, sometimes."

"Perhaps that should change."

The serious shift in Father's tone caught Vincent's attention, and he looked more sharply at the patriarch.

Father met his gaze in earnest. "Why haven't _you_ put your name in for Edward's position on the Council?"

Vincent relaxed his head back against the chair, his eyes hovering somewhere between closed and open; the question was hardly worth answering. "Pascal and William are both excellent choices. It'll be a difficult vote for all of us. There's no want for suited candidates."

"We should have a choice of _all_ of the best-suited candidates." Father sat forward. "Vincent, this week you have shown clearer judgment and a greater dedication to the ideals upon which we try to build our lives than anyone else. Yours was the only voice raised in defense of the man that attacked you, that stabbed Mouse. We would have sent him and his daughters to their deaths. I can't lie and say that that isn't what our decision would have meant. You saved them from the topsiders. But you saved them from us, as well."

"One incident is hardly a foundation for a place on the Council, Father."

"This is hardly the first time you've forced us to see what we would prefer to ignore."

"It's certainly the most dramatic."

Father was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Vincent, I'd like to put your name in."

Vincent raised his head again to meet his father's gaze. "The vote is hardly a week away. What good would it do? It would only confuse things."

"I've thought about it before," Father said. "But I worried how it would look. I know I haven't always been…impartial when it comes to you."

Vincent made a face at the understatement, but said nothing.

"I worried that I would be seen as pitting my son against Edward's. Now, after the events of these last few days, it cannot be denied that you have both the judgment necessary, and the trust of our people, to serve on the Council."

"Perhaps there will be a time when I take a position on the Council, but this is not it. I'm a young man, Father; the Council doesn't need my voice now. Do not suggest it."

"Actually, it was Winslow who suggested it, earlier today."

"Winslow and Pascal have been close friends since we were all children. You can't ask him to put my name in opposition to Pascal's."

Father nodded. "That's why I thought it best that I was the one to do it, after all."

"It's not our way to play these games. If Winslow feels strongly enough, then he must be the one to put my name in. As he doesn't, we can conclude that the nomination would be worthless, perhaps even detrimental. No, Father, you mustn't."

Father conceded with a sigh. Vincent put his head back again and listened to the messages on the pipes, the old clock in the corner, distant voices and footsteps, the steady rhythm of life Below. It was only when Father shook him awake that he realized he had slipped beyond peaceful thoughts at all. The pipes and the corridors were silent. Vincent stood and bid his father goodnight.

The next day, Vincent had just released his afternoon history class when Brooke scurried in.

"Hi, Vincent. Joan sent for you," she informed him breathlessly before rushing right back out to join some of her friends.

With a slight shake of his head at his messenger, Vincent set about tidying books and papers before leaving his chamber for the sewing chamber. As was the usual way of things in the daytime, he found the women there chattering as loudly and quickly as the sewing machines themselves. A little distance from the machines, a cluster of women sat in padded chairs, mending and knitting by hand and swapping stories about their lives Above. Everyone spared Vincent a happy greeting as he stepped in.

The room itself was strewn with half-finished projects, old department store mannequins, and boxes of donated and scavenged cloth. An organized chaos, Joan always assured anyone who so much as raised an eyebrow, and the system seemed to work, so there was no sense in arguing with her.

"Vincent, my boy, come in, come in. Here, Maria, fetch the shirts Sebastian brought down. There, under that table. Rosie, bring the mirror over here. Yes, the big one. Jenny, help Rosie, would you. Now, Vincent, here we are. I think these should fit you." Joan appeared to say all of this in one breath as she guided him to a relatively clear corner of the chamber. She took several thermal shirts from the cardboard box Maria had dragged over and held them up one by one at Vincent's shoulders. "Yes, very good. You try these on, dear, and let me know if they need any altering."

Few items that Joan had eyeballed ever needed alteration, but he agreed that he would, nonetheless. Jennifer and Rosaline had wrestled the mirror across the chaotic floor by then, and Joan picked up a shirt by the shoulders to hold in front of Vincent so he could imagine it on. She had been doing this to him since he was a boy, and he was well skilled at examining the garments and commenting on the work that had gone into them without really looking above his own neckline; there was simply no point in pretending that the right clothes could make any difference there.

"Now, here, one shirt for you. Used to be curtains. Such a lovely shade of blue, don't you think? Good, sturdy fabric. Here, we've done the cuffs like you like, see? We got this flannel in, as well, good and warm. I know you don't go for plaid, but this one will do as a good undershirt, don't you think? Now, this one we're still piecing together, but it'll be just lovely, you'll see."

Vincent tried to use her brief pause to assure her that even with what he'd lost the week before, he was nowhere near desperate for clothes, and what she'd already handed him would be plenty, but Joan tossed aside the ivory scrap half-finished shirt and picked up something large and black that he'd taken for a donated blanket or bolt of fabric. Once she found the shoulders and held it up, he saw that it was instead a cloak.

"There, now. Father said you'd ruined yours, only you didn't like to tell dear, old Joan. Silly boy. I haven't had to scold you about keeping your clothes clean and mended since you were this high." She gestured to about her own shoulder height. "Accidents happen, my boy. And you without your cloak, in February, no less! Now, let's see, turn here. Yes, mind the arm. Don't let old Joanie jar it, bless."

She wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and reached up on tiptoes to pull the hood forward. Once he'd found the sleeves, she turned him, and for a moment, he came face to face with his reflection in the mirror. He dropped his gaze down to the black leather and wool. The cloak was heavy and felt durable under his fingers. The sleeves were an improvement he hadn't thought to ask for, but he could see that they would improve his mobility.

He had started to remark on this when Michael appeared in the doorway. He spotted Vincent and picked his way over. "Hi, Vincent. Council wants you in Father's chamber."

Something about the suddenness of that unsettled Vincent slightly. "Thank you, Michael. I'll be there once I'm finished here."

"Oh, you're as good as finished here now, my boy. Michael here can take your things back to your chamber. Can't do with keeping the Council waiting. Here, give me that cloak. There you go. Go on now."

Vincent started to protest, but Michael let the cloak be draped over his outstretched arms. "I don't mind," the boy said.

Vincent thanked him again, and Joan, and made his way to Father's chamber, uneasy about what he would find. They didn't leave him wondering for long.

"Ah, Vincent, good," Father said, waving his son to approach the table as soon as he appeared. "We thought you should be the first to know: Winslow has put your name in for the Council position, and it's carried with a unanimous vote. He'll make the formal announcement this evening at supper."

"Father, we discussed this—"

"Yes, and you conceded that if Winslow felt strongly enough to make the nomination himself, then it would be worthwhile."

"That's not exactly what I—"

"Lad, if you're voted in, will you take the position?" Edward asked.

"Of course."

"Then what's there to argue? Council's all decided. It's a good notion. Let it rest."

"What happened a few days ago will confuse the vote," Vincent answered. "Putting my name in now will put undue focus on a single incident that shouldn't bear on this decision."

"You saved three lives," Mary said. "How can we ignore that?"

"And Pascal and William have served our community faithfully for years. Please understand, I'm deeply honored by the motion, but one dramatic moment should not take our attention away from their long service."

"And what about your service?" Winslow countered.

"Yes," said Mary. "When have you ever been less devoted to us than either William or Pascal?"

"I've never carried the responsibility either of them carry."

The Councilors answered with sounds of general disagreement, but it was Edward who spoke.

"Lad, for as flawless as your logic is usually, you're acting a right prat now. Take the bleeding nomination with a bit of grace, and leave the decision to everyone else."

"It's decided, then," Father said before Vincent could answer. "Thank you, Vincent. That'll be all."

He met Father's gaze with clear displeasure, but kept his objections silent. He left without another word.

The announcement made supper awkward. No one contested the nomination, but it raised a few eyebrows, and William could be heard grumbling about the wisdom of last minute decisions. Even so, the news was generally taken as a positive, but Vincent didn't linger overlong to listen to speculation.

He walked rounds of some of the outer tunnels to work out his sudden restlessness, but he only felt the city weighing down more heavily over his head as he moved beneath it, and he retreated to Father's chamber to read to the children. Afterward, he and Father tried to speak naturally over a game of chess, with mixed results for the first little while. But after the game, Vincent begged off a second and returned to his chamber with thoughts of putting his thoughts down in his journal. He found his new clothes folded on his bed. He put the shirts away before picking up the cloak to put it where the old one had always belonged, tossed over the back of the nearest chair. He hesitated, considering the dark swath of fabric.

Barring the night he had gone with Jacqueline, Vincent had felt no deep drive to go Above since he'd lost his hold and discovered exactly what horrors his hands could reap from the rich soil of a man's flesh and blood. He had hoped that walking in the light of his home, under the eyes of his family, would keep that savage part of him tamed. To stand upright and speak like a civilized man, to hold a pen or a chess piece or a book in clawed hands, to teach and reason and plan—he had clung to these things, no matter how the confines chafed.

And now, suddenly, with a cloak in hand, he felt a familiar, overwhelming restlessness. The first realization of just how deeply he longed to walk Above shuddered through him. He hesitated. He dithered. But the cloak felt good between his fingers, heavy and warm. Durable and solid. His pass to the openness of the world.

His feet had already made the decision; he stepped out of his chamber even while he weighed and wondered. He would be leashed still by his injuries, unable to roam or climb as he pleased, but reports of a new snowfall drew him up to the park to smell the sharpness of the air and feel the aimlessness of an unhindered breeze.

He passed through the pipe chamber. Pascal and Edward looked at the cloak, now around his shoulders, and clearly understood his intent. Pascal offered a quiet, "Be careful," and Edward only snorted into his clay mug. Vincent heard the message tapped out to Father as he left.

At the threshold, he tripped the latch, and the bitterness of the night flooded the tunnel. He passed into it, through it to the park. The frigidity had chased even the heartier souls to their homes; Vincent had the place to himself, and that suited his mood perfectly well. With bold, unhurried steps, he crossed the open expanses of snow, finding satisfaction in the icy crunch under each foot. He looked to the sky and found the perfect black of a high, shrouding cloud cover. No moon, then. Ah, well. There were no people to glimpse, no events to watch, so he shifted in among a stand of conifers, their boughs heavy with great blots of snow, but his aimless stroll among the trees shifted to a circuitous pacing as his thoughts rose in pitch.

His life was Below. The eyes that could stand his visage were by and large Below. His books and keepsakes were in a stone chamber far beneath his feet. What was this driving need for the world Above, when he could never be more than a ghost in the night? Father begged him not to take the risk, and Vincent had no satisfactory explanation for his need, except perhaps his refusal to be bound and chained by the fear of a world that did not even know of his existence.

But he now had the blood of two men on his hands. He knew that he had had no choice with Sharpe, that everything he held most dear would have been torn apart, drowned in terror and blood, left in bitter shards of what once had been, if he hadn't done what was necessary. That decision had been made as a man, not the hungering predator clamoring for escape; it made the memory of the act no less nauseating, but he had reason to shield him from some of the gnawing shame and disgust the other murder left in him. There had been no primal hunger to be sated, no submission to those most bestial desires.

And yet there had been the hunt, earlier that night. Sharpe's thugs, all armed and dangerous in the dark. Vincent had no learned skill at stalking and subduing quarry, but his body and his mind slid into the task with easy precision. The ability to predict and outmaneuver his opponent made him formidable in chess, but it all stemmed from an instinct he felt in the deepest reaches of his heart and yet could neither name nor explain. And the very strength and speed that made him so well suited to labor in the tunnels lay coiled in his every muscle, ready and eager for conflict. He was not made for the company and civility of the rest of the world, so many people whose bones snapped so easily, whose flesh tore so cleanly, who ran so slowly and struck so weakly.

And yet…and yet, even as those dark thoughts welled in him, he rebelled against them, recoiled from the gory, predatory delight of them. There were so many people that he loved dearly, who lived Below and gave him everything, even love and acceptance, and so many who lived Above, those who had gone topside to make their lives and those who gave so generously to the tunnel community. So many had opened their hearts to him, but it wasn't simple gratitude that he felt in return. He shuddered to imagine a solitary life, without the joy of the children, the warmth of his brothers and sisters, the incorruptible adoration of a father. He felt driven to protect them, to serve them, to give of his love for them.

And yet…he spun on his heal at another _and yet_, grunting under the weight of so many layers of truth and conjecture. And yet he craved the world Above, to move and climb in endless open spaces, to breathe air so recently touched by trees and grass. _Photophilic_, Edward had called him, a moth to flame. Yes, the light drew him. The sounds of music and gatherings and joy were siren song to him. He felt the darkness in him, even as he peered into the light, searching for…searching for _something_, like he'd find some piece of daylight, some note of careless laughter, to secret away into himself and carry always, a balm against that gnawing emptiness in him.

And yet…yes, still, and yet again, there was the silence and solitude he sought, when words and ideas built up tight and hard in his chest, making his breaths shallow and his thoughts frantic. There was the rush of his nameless river, wild and uncaring, the only sound louder than the animal howl of emotion inside of him. He separated himself from light, melded seamlessly into the welcoming shroud of the most primordial caverns, a thousand thousand tons of rock between him and the nearest human touch. He descended and wondered if this was the time he would lose himself in the black, that he would simply fade into the stones and the water and forget to be a man again.

And this, all of _this_, was what the Council would nominate into its ranks? This torrent of contradiction, this fickle amalgamation of man and…and not? It couldn't be allowed. It mustn't be allowed.

His thoughts settled down to this single decision long enough for the ache in his shoulder and his arm to penetrate, and cold weariness flooded his awareness. He turned back to the tunnel entrance, leaving his syphoned energy behind to the trees and the wind.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: There isn't much one can say for oneself after a seven-month gap between posts, besides I'm sorry it took so long. Life has been life-y, and my muse had a bit of a strop about it. But I started this fic on the promise to myself that it would be finished, and so it shall be. Part XIV is mostly written, with an ending and everything, so once I get all the disparate pieces stitched together, it'll be up, and the story will be properly done. Thank you to everyone for reading, and enjoy._

Part XIII

The week passed uneventfully, and Vincent downplayed or sidestepped remarks about his place in the upcoming vote with fluid subtlety, turning the conversation always to William and Pascal. He enjoyed the irony and the challenge of it, as he gently campaigned against himself. If Father noticed, he said nothing, and Vincent's amusement only grew as his efforts appeared to be working. When they couldn't seem to pin down his opinions on important topics, most people lost interest altogether and drifted away feeling vaguely dissatisfied, and any contrition he might have felt over being less than forthright, even slightly less than entirely honest, was easily tempered by his confidence that his motives were just.

After lunch on the day of the common meeting, the schedules on the duty rosters were all short by two hours so that the community could gather in Father's chamber to hear each of the three Council candidates say a few words and answer questions before the vote. The votes would then be tallied during supper, and the new Council member announced at the end of the common meeting that evening.

Of course, Vincent's name still didn't appear on any of the work rosters, anyway, and wouldn't until the following week if Father had his way, but he had found plenty of doctor-sanctioned work with maps that needed updating and reworking before spring. With his singular combination of intimate tunnel knowledge and unending patience for precise cartography, Vincent had always been particularly well suited to both drawing the maps and collecting the data for them. Still, with his schedule becoming necessarily more regulated so that he could be consistent about the children's classes, his exploratory excursions had dwindled over the last year or two, and he found himself confronted with the measurements and journals of less precise explorers. As he moved the entire project from Father's study to his own chamber in preparation for the day's community gathering, he weighed the merits of tutoring the worst offenders in the error of their ways versus using them as a reason to simply go and do the thing himself, something he found intensely appealing after the last weeks.

Idly contemplating this quandary, Vincent made his way down to lunch, which consisted mainly of stew made from last night's dinner and a heavy corn bread. Without a word, Beatrice added a second and third piece of bread, until his plate could safely hold no more next to the steaming bowl, and sent him on his way. In a community where everyone accomplished everything by the sweat of their collective brow, the amount of food Vincent's body demanded was still embarrassingly large, and had been since his mid-teens. It was years since he'd even paid attention to the fact that the kitchen staff loaded his plate with disproportionate quantities of rice, potatoes, bread—anything that was dense and plentiful, just to keep him full without squandering precious resource. But today he was pleased by the cornbread, a welcome, sweet change from the usual starches.

As usual, Brian was easy to find, the only one sitting alone and silent. He looked up when Vincent sat down across from him. "Nervous?" he asked before dipping his head back over his stew.

"About my place in the vote today?"

Brian offered a quick nod.

"No. I expect my recent nomination will have little bearing on the results. Pascal seems to have been the overall favorite for weeks now, but William has many strong supporters, as well." Vincent bit into the first piece of cornbread, pleased to find that it was the dry, crumbly kind with grainy bits of cornmeal that were a pleasure to chew.

"Huh. That's not exactly how I've heard it. Got your speech all prepared?"

"There won't be much speech-making to be done, in the way you may be used to. Each nominee will have a few minutes to sum up their suitability for the position and answer any questions, but our community is small. We have little need for the hyperbolic rhetoric that's prevalent Above. Those who would say that they don't know William or Pascal well enough to decide, or else who don't understand our way of life well enough to know which they think would be preferable, have likely not been with us long enough to have a vote."

"So how would you 'sum up your suitability for the position,' then?"

Vincent took a moment to answer, starting into a second piece of cornbread in the meantime. "My nomination was premature. Having had the week to consider, I imagine most of the community agrees."

"That so?"

"It's the logical conclusion. The decision was made in haste."

Brian nodded, then committed himself to his stew. There was something he wasn't saying; Vincent hardly needed empathic abilities to conclude that, but Brian often liked to keep his own counsel, particularly when he was trying to puzzle out some new aspect of life Below, so it didn't seem worth pursuing. "Olivia tells me that both Madeleine and Andrea are settling into classes with the other children. My younger students will be starting _Oliver Twist_ next week, if Madeleine would like to join us."

"_Oliver Twist_? Do you think she'll be able to keep up? Most schools don't teach that sort of stuff till high school up top."

"The most enduring stories are the ones we can revisit many times as we grow older. I have no doubt she'll be able to enjoy and sympathize with Oliver's trials. What further meaning she can take from it now will be her own, but if it resonates, as good literature must, she'll revisit what she knows about the story again and again in her life. We can do no more than open the door."

Brian smiled, scraping out the bottom of his bowl and taking the last spoonful. "Yeah. I kinda' figured I'd get some answer like that. I'll let her know. Well. I'll see you later, then. Good luck."

Vincent nodded, but said nothing as Brian got up and left. The mess was already beginning to empty as people finished eating and drifted toward Father's chamber in twos and threes. When he had finished his own meal, he went in the same direction. Mary greeted him and showed him a seat at the table. The center of the chamber was being left open as the speaker's floor, and the community was already pressing shoulder to shoulder to fit. Pascal entered with Edward leaning heavily on one arm. When he had his father situated, he sank into the chair beside Vincent with a nod. William arrived last, untying the strings on his apron as he stumped down the stairs.

"Well, now that we're all gathered," Father said, and the chamber quickly hushed, "I'll go over the procedure for today's vote, as a reminder to everyone, as well as for the benefit of those who are new to the community. As all of you are no doubt aware, this evening's common meeting will be different from most, as we will be selecting a new member of the Council to take Edward's place. This afternoon, each of our three candidates, William, Pascal, and Vincent, will have a few minutes to speak and answer any questions. Now, I must stress, that these should be _relevant_ questions that will help you and the rest of the community make this decision today." People around the chamber traded smirks and rolling eyes at the memory of Jonathan's long interrogation of Winslow over increasingly disastrous and unlikely resource shortage scenarios from the last vote. "Everyone will then have the remainder of the day to decide and cast their ballot into the box here." Father laid his hand over the padlocked wooden box. "The vote will be tallied with the entire Council present, with the result to be announced at this evening's common meeting. Are there any questions?" After a moment's silence, he nodded. "All right. Who would like to speak first?"

William stepped forward without hesitation. After a moment to ensure that he had everyone's attention, he boomed, "We've got a good life down here. There isn't a one of us who doesn't know it, who doesn't appreciate it. I look around here, and all I see is good people. My friends. My family. We've got something down here most topsiders don't know a thing about. And I can't really put a word to it, exactly, but I know what it feels like, being a part of all of you and not the poor, beaten soul I was up top.

"But all the good feeling in the world won't keep our children safe and fed. It won't keep topsiders out. It won't heal us when we're sick; it won't stop the spring floods. The way I see it, we're secret enough, over all. And there aren't any arguments we can't settle amongst ourselves. Way I see it is resources. Resources is the thing we can always run shy on. Food and clean water and warm clothes are the things that can turn good people frightened and angry if we have too little. I believe you're all good people. We're all down here for a reason. So as long as we make sure we have enough, the rest will take care of itself. We'll all take care of each other."

A few whispers and nods met his conclusion, but no one addressed William directly, and he resumed his seat. Father stood. "If there are no questions for William? All right. Pascal, I believe you're next."

Pascal nodded and shuffled to the floor. He considered his audience, nearly two hundred souls that broke bread with him, respected him, spoke through him on the pipes. He flicked his wrist in an unconscious effort to catch up one of his batons, to ground himself with the familiar weight, but this was official community business, and there were no batons there; Vincent caught the way his fingers faltered and then were shaken out.

Finally, he began with, "I have little to say. You know me. You know my pipes. They keep us connected, however far we stray from each other in a day. When there's danger, when the all-safe goes out, when there is celebration. We would be so many disparate souls, alone in the dark, without the pipes to unite us, to remind us of who's coming and who's waiting.

"I was born here. My life, my legacy, is here. I know that if we cannot speak to each other, then we are lost. To be on the Council is to be a voice. It means to stand in times of worry and despair, to never abandon the post, to never lie down. To never go silent. This is what my father has taught me. We are at all because we are together. That must never change, or we are lost."

He paused, and the moment drew on, quiet. He shrugged. "Like I said, I have little to say. My qualifications, my reasons, are written in the way that I have lived my life among you. You know me. The rest is your decision. Thank you."

He remained in place for a moment or two before taking the respondent silence as his cue to exit. He dropped into his chair, and his hands immediately began tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the wooden arms. The sound was quiet, but Vincent could pick it out. It was an older form of code, shorthanded from the original Morse-based system, but still less terse and less efficient than their current communications. More melodic, Pascal always insisted. With some concentration, Vincent realized it was poetry his friend was rapidly burning through. Frost. _They were pipes of pagan mirth, And the world had found new terms of worth. He laid him down on_—

"Vincent?"

At Father's entreaty, Vincent stood and used the space of his steps to refocus his thoughts. He looked around the room, met the curious gazes of adults and children alike, world-weary souls brought back from the brink and fresh, eager faces that had known the fickle, golden light of candleflame all their lives. Ragtag, beaten and bruised, homespun, and spitshone—flourishing against every odds any sane, practical man might care to wager. All for the fathomless power of a dream, a _whimsy_. A notion so powerful that it defied all the precepts of civilization across—over the top of—God's green earth. He stood under the weight of their attention, their trust, those he loved most dearly, and felt the rightness of his words.

"I'm honored and grateful to you all for considering me, but I believe that my nomination was made too quickly. The events of last week are still fresh in everyone's minds, but they represent only one brief moment in our community. In voting today, we must consider the years each nominee has spent among us and choose the truest voice.

"Pascal was born in these tunnels. His father helped to found this community and has long maintained our communications, without which we would be disconnected from each other. Pascal has lived his entire life by our highest ideals, and has already acted as proxy for his father many times in the last months. He understands who we are and who we strive to be as well as any man here can. He has been a kind and steadfast friend to so many of us, and his voice on the Council would be one of truth and justice.

"William came to us from Above, and now he serves us all, not only with his cooking, but by the care with which he maintains our food stores. He understands the limits of our resources perhaps best of anyone. He also understands the dangers of the world Above and what must be done to shield ourselves, to protect ourselves and all that we love. He is a man of strength and passion, whose words on the Council would ever be heard, ever be fought for."

"Both would serve the Council with pride and care. Both understand the responsibility that they would carry, and both are equal to it. This is the choice upon which we must focus, and not the extraordinary events we've recently weathered. Our choice today must be the one we feel will most consistently and assuredly represent our needs." He looked around the chamber once more, avoided meeting Father's eyes. "Thank you, all."

He stood in place for a moment as speculative whispers eddied around him, but became satisfied that his meaning had been taken and understood. He had turned back to his chair when Brian leaned down over the railing of the upper level then and spoke. "Hey, can I say something to everyone?"

Father exchanged looks with the rest of the Council before nodding. "Go ahead."

"Thanks." Brian looked around at all the curious faces in the room. "Okay. Look. I know it's not really my place to tell you all your business. And God knows I'm not very popular around here. But my short time here, I've learned some things have to be said when they have to be said.

"Now, Vincent here, he's not out for glory. We all know that. So he wants to ignore what happened last week. But I can't."

"Brian, please—"

Brian waved Vincent's protest aside. "No, this has to be said." He addressed the room at large again. "You all know he saved me and my girls, but he's right, that's not what's important for this election of yours. What's important is everything else.

"In the first day I knew Vincent, I learned more about mercy and loyalty and love and the strength it takes to do what's _right_ than I've ever seen Above. It was a jaded, frightened fool that mistook this man for a danger. But somehow, and I can't tell you how, but somehow he saw a good in me that I thought had died long ago—I don't know if I ever even believed it was there—and he drew that good up to the surface, made me see it for the first time in so long." His gaze swept the room again. "I know you all know what I'm talking about. I can see it in your faces, he's done the same for so many of you. This place is good for the soul. You are all so full of love and mercy, I can't even understand it. But who does more to inspire that good in all of us than Vincent?

"So when you talk about service, when you talk about who'll do the best for this society of yours, Vincent's right. Forget about last week. Forget about me. But think about who you all were before you knew him, or who you might have been if you never did. And then think about how if he can do that for each of us, if he can find the good in us that most of us didn't even know was there, what would he do for the whole place on this Council of yours? That's what I'd think about, if I was voting."

Brian stopped there, and the loss of his voice left the room in a strange, intense silence that drew on, even as the spectators began to exchange looks or shift slightly under the heaviness of the contemplative quiet.

Vincent, under the pressing weight of renewed speculation, found himself compelled to break the silence. "Thank you, Brian, for speaking your heart. What you've said is worth more to me than I can tell you." He looked around the chamber, into the faces of those he loved, of those who loved him, and found a greater intensity than mere curiosity. His gentle mischief against himself felt suddenly weak and brittle; he needed to _explain_, to know that they saw at least that which was most important, that which would remain unaltered. "All of you are worth more to me than I can tell you. There have been dark hours in the longest nights when I've imagined what my life would be without all of you, and I feel such sorrow. I think of the empty shadows and endless silence that I would endure, and I find myself near to despair. But with the morning's first messages on the pipes, with the passing of the first lanterns outside my chamber, I remember that I will never have to know that life, and I'm grateful. In those moments, I feel a peace that erases all the dark hours of the night. My love for all of you, my devotion to all of you, will not change after today. It runs deeper than elections or Council decisions can. It can't be changed by any vote. I stand by what I said earlier. The choice is between William and Pascal, just as it has been for weeks. Months. My place here among you won't change, as surely as my affection for all of you, my brothers and sisters, will not change."

Silence followed his words, as well, and he used it to take to his chair again, leaving Father to intervene this time.

"Yes, well," the patriarch said as he stood. "We certainly cannot deny the difficulty of today's vote. Everyone has until four o'clock this afternoon to cast their ballot into the box." He laid his hand on the padlocked box in question. "And the new Councilor will be announced after supper this evening. There will be at least one member of the Council present until the voting closes, to ensure the accuracy of the count. If no one else wishes to speak?" He paused, but no one responded. "Then I'll see everyone again after supper."

The tunnel dwellers all stood and shifted, loitered to wait for friends or slid out of the chamber as quickly as they could get through the crowd. Vincent joined Pascal near the table; William was already behind the screen that had been wheeled in from the hospital chamber to ensure the privacy of each person casting his or her vote. It was traditional that the nominees voted first, as they were expected to remain outside of Father's chamber for the rest of the afternoon. There was little history of strong-arming any kind of vote Below, but tempers could flare, and there was no point in creating the opportunity for dishonesty, or even the impression of it. As it was, afternoon classes had been cancelled so that the children could help get the community's chores done on this abbreviated workday, so Vincent would have no difficulty in keeping out for a few hours, alien as the concept of Father's chamber being closed to him felt. After the events of a few moments ago, he was eager to return to the project, to soothe his mind with the unfeeling details of cartography and sentry placement. Pascal looked up at him, considered him, but said nothing.

After a moment, William reappeared, and Pascal replaced him behind the screen. When it was his turn, Vincent wrote _Pascal_ across one of the provided strips of butcher paper, folded it in half, and dropped it into the box.

Contrary to his own intentions, Vincent's progress with the maps was minimal to nonexistent the rest of the afternoon. Not long after he returned to his chamber, Jamie appeared to ask if he had seen Mouse; she had taken it upon herself to keep him in line while his injury healed, but he had apparently slipped away from her watchful eye. Again. When she got a negative reply, she stayed around to remark on how much Mouse had always looked up to him, how much everyone looked up to him. Minutes after she left, Michael arrived to seek his teacher's approval of his efforts at improving his penmanship. Michael explained in earnest how very much he admired Vincent's own fluid style of writing, as well as his ability to always choose just the right words. The boy eventually took to the gentle hints about work they were both meant to be doing, but he had no sooner left than Dominic and Rebecca each appeared at the doorway within moments of each other. The former wanted to announce that, having diligently practiced what Vincent had taught him, he had finally defeated Jamie in their last staff bout, and when would their mentor be back on the training roster? The latter was at least blessedly more direct. Rebecca let him know that quite a number of people had noticed his recent melancholy and wanted to know if there was anything she or the others could do, and didn't he know they were always there for him, just the way he had so very often been there for them? The gentle kindness meant in her every word and gesture served to remind him of how very carefully he needed to keep his own counsel, how much of himself he could not explain without frightening them, and what impassable gulfs those truths created. But he was well done with self-pity, and he assured Rebecca that he was feeling much better, that he could never forget the love that they showed him every day. He found so much unwarranted attention uncomfortable, a fact that he dealt with by doing his best to soothe and assure the people that came to him and to send them away again contented and unworried.

By supper, he felt weary but confident that the sudden focus on him would evaporated with the common meeting and the results of the vote to fill everyone's minds. Still, everyone he met on his way seemed to have warm smiles and bright words just for him. William was the notable exception; he handed Vincent his plate without a word, his every angle and gesture speaking of tension. Vincent started to inquire, but the cook only grunted and moved on to the next person.

There seemed to be no evidence of the cornbread that had been such a treat that afternoon, tonight's supper being chicken and rice. When Vincent looked down at his plate and felt dismayed to find that it seemed to consist of little _besides_ rice, there being only vague evidence of either chicken or peas and carrots, he chastised himself for making demands in the dead of winter. Had he not praised William's persistent economy with their food stores only hours ago? Perhaps that was why it was on his mind to begin with.

He searched the tables for Brian, having come to enjoy his mealtime company and now feeling a need to connect with him since the events of the afternoon gathering, to thank him for his intent, if not necessarily his methods. It was no small surprise to find the topsider in easy conversation with both Pascal and Cullen, the latter of which noticed Vincent and waved him over.

"It's all so very…European," Brian was saying as Vincent sat down.

"European?" Vincent asked.

Cullen laughed. "Brian doesn't like the communal baths. I admit, they take some getting used to. Sometimes, a man just doesn't want an _audience_."

"Exactly!" Brian crowed.

"It takes a great deal of ingenuity and work to maintain the hot water systems that we do have—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cullen said with a wave of one hand, bringing Vincent up short. He leaned across the table toward Brian. "That's what they all tell you down here. Well, these two have never had a real shower in their lives, I guess they don't know the difference. But I'll tell you what, I took up with this waitress topside for a few weeks last summer, _just_ to have a shower all to myself once in a while. _And_ I damn well left the seat up every time."

Vincent exchanged a bewildered shrug with Pascal, but Brian snorted appreciatively. "I can almost believe it," he said.

Cullen's attention swung to Vincent as though he hadn't dismissed the other man only seconds earlier. "So. That was quite a speech this afternoon."

"Everyone seems to think so," he answered diplomatically—and truthfully.

"Well, clearly William's not happy about it," Brian said. "I thought he saved all the grizzle for me. Can't imagine what he found _that_ bit under."

Vincent followed their gazes down to his plate, where he had been making steady progress on his portion of rice; some meals were meant to be savored, others just filled the gap, and these he tended to eat mindlessly. On closer inspection, he found that what chicken he had been given was indeed a bit lean on actual meat. It had never occurred to him that William might have intentionally skimped on his portions. He never had before, why in the world would he start?

"Well, now," Cullen said, his tone suddenly low and disapproving. He turned toward the kitchen. "If that isn't just bad form."

Vincent followed his gaze, raising his head just in time to see William turn away from Cullen's glare a little too quickly. The guilty gesture seemed to confirm Brian and Cullen's suspicions. Surely Vincent hadn't left anything vital out of his description of William's skillset that afternoon? He looked at Pascal for an explanation of this strange slight. William must have felt that Vincent had skewed the vote in some inappropriate way, leaving him at a clear disadvantage to Pascal, but he couldn't figure it.

"What you said this afternoon _was_ compelling," Pascal said.

"But surely not in a way that would distort the vote unduly?"

Pascal shrugged. "'Distort' implies results that are somehow twisted or wrong."

Vincent stared at the smaller man incredulously; if Pascal had reason to suspect the same as William clearly did, then he expected to win the vote. But Vincent had never heard him speak so smugly, blatantly presuming that his appointment to the Council was _right_ by some absolute definition.

Winslow arrived suddenly and loudly, in his usual custom, effectively derailing the entire line of conversation. Vincent plowed through the rest of his meal, only half aware of the conversation around him, feeling unsettled in the crowded mess. With well more than an hour left before the common meeting, Vincent excused himself on the need to do some of the work he hadn't been able to through the afternoon.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Well, so this is it. At just shy of 45,000 words, FNMS is officially the longest piece of fiction I've ever actually finished. Thanks so much to everyone who's read through to the end, and for all the warm welcomes I got in fandom as a total newb when I started this fic one year ago :) My writing time has been severely limited by annoying things like working and the occasional attempt at having a social life, but I've still got some projects in the works, so we'll see what I can get finished and posted. As always, enjoy!

Part VIX

Having finally sorted out the worst of the measuring errors well enough to be moving on, Vincent made notes of what could be corrected, what needed to be redrawn, and worst, what would need to be refigured from scratch. But, they were well on schedule to begin planning work for the spring, when their waterways would need to be serviced and their security measures redoubled. Snowmelt and heavy rains and the general wear and tear of the seasons caused more direct trouble to the world Above, and that sort of trouble meant scores of city work crews straying too close to comfort. Every spring was a turbulent mix of joy, anxiety, and back-breaking labor, and accurate, detailed maps were a blessing that few considered before there was trouble.

He heard heavy footsteps in the tunnel beyond his chamber several moments before William called to him, "Vincent?"

Surprised, and then immediately reflecting that perhaps he shouldn't have been, Vincent marked his place in the journal he'd been examining before looking up. "Come in, William."

The cook brought with him all the scents of the kitchen, from dried herbs to soot and smoke to the liberal quantities of sherry that seemed to end up in most meals. And this particular evening, he smelled strongly of roasted chicken—unless that was the covered plate he carried in one hand.

Swallowing a sudden excess of saliva, Vincent raised his eyes to the cook's face and asked neutrally, "What can I do for you?"

William looked indecisive for a moment before moving suddenly to uncover the plate, revealing fully half of a small chicken laid out, the skin crisp and brown. Next to that lay sections of orange—an entire one of William's carefully hoarded winter oranges, by the look of it. And completing the plate, a generous cup of fresh vanilla custard, shaved chocolate melting over the top. Not a grain of rice, a speck of potato, or a crumb of bread to be found. After a moment of awkward silence, William said, "I brought this up for you, Vincent."

"It looks excellent," Vincent answered carefully. "But I've already had supper."

William's face flushed as his brow crumpled with frustration. "Damn it, Vincent, I'm trying to apologize."

"There's no need—"

"Of course there's a need. I know what I did wasn't right, even without Cullen looking at me like I'd let you starve. It was mean and it was petty, and I'm sorry."

"It's already forgotten, William. I'll speak to Cullen—"

"None of this is going to be any good to anybody if you let it get cold."

That was a gross exaggeration bordering on blatant falsehood; the chicken would only join its leftover brethren in the soup pot for tomorrow's lunch, and neither the orange slices nor the custard would be difficult to give away. But William persisted.

"None of it will be missed on anyone's plate. Just take it, Vincent. Please. With my blessing."

Put that way, Vincent could hardly refuse. He accepted the plate and the napkin-wrapped flatware William handed him. William helped him shift maps and journals to his bed before leaving him to what was, by Tunnel standards, a practical feast. Within three bites, he had to admit that the great portion of chicken on the bone was a rare treat to be savored. He often craved protein, and while he generally made do with a mix of cheese and eggs and simply ignoring the pangs, this was as good as sinking into a hot bath after a week of labor and cold, quick scrubs in the outer, uninhabited tunnels. With no one to observe his eating habits, he made short work of picking the bones clean with contented relish.

After months of canned, jarred, and heavily spiced fruits, the bright, tangy flavor of fresh orange slices was its own luxury. He tried to savor them, but found himself greedy for each new burst and squish of juice and pulp, exactly as he had been as a child. He had always imagined that it was an orange's magical ability to capture the summer sun that ripened it and hold that light until the skin was broken; as a boy, he had always been somehow faintly surprised to see no residual glow in the tantalizing sections, as it was through their bright flavor that he felt he knew just the first thing about the warmth and joy of sunlight. He supposed, now, that that had been nothing more than childish fancy, but like his magic tapestries in the Great Hall, it was a fond, harmless narrative.

He was already full to bulging with this second dinner on top of his first, but the custard went down in a few easy spoonfuls, just as the call to the common meeting went out over the pipes. Still, he took a moment to thoroughly clean the spoon and the cup. He would return the plate to the kitchen after the meeting, and if he had not already caught William to make his apologies, he would make a point of it then.

Father's chamber was filling quickly, and Vincent resumed his chair. William was already seated, but it was several minutes after the final call to the meeting had sounded over the pipes before Pascal hurried in and took his own seat, and Father stood to begin the meeting.

"Thank you, everyone, for joining us. We have a great deal to go through this evening, so let us begin immediately. The votes for the Council position have been counted, and we have a clear majority, by nearly three quarters."

Vincent was slightly surprised; he had thought that William and Pascal would be more evenly matched. He wondered again that his efforts at neutrality seemed to have backfired so spectacularly. It didn't make the least bit of sense; he was quite skilled at choosing the correct words and tones to convey the nuances of his meaning. That some unintended inference seemed to have been made that he could not track and snare confounded and unsettled him.

"As Vincent reminded us this morning," Father continued, "our new Council member shoulders a great responsibility, and will be expected to do so for years to come. The position is a great honor of trust and respect, but it is also one of dedication and work. I know that, personally, I can think of no one who will serve us better, who _has_ served us better for many years, than this newest addition to the Council, but the choice was all of yours. Vincent, I'm proud to welcome you onto the Council, not only as my son, but also as a worthy and respected member of the community."

Everyone in the room began to clap, but Vincent only looked up from his conjectures, at the happy faces around him, in confusion.

Father held out his hand. "Vincent, you have to come forward."

He stood and, amid claps on the back and congratulations, he approached the table. Father pulled his head down to kiss his forehead.

"This is a proud moment, for both of us," Father said quietly.

"I don't understand," Vincent confessed just as softly.

"The vote was clear. You were chosen by overwhelming majority."

He wanted to protest, wanted to find some flaw, but numbers were unyielding and hard to argue with.

"Vincent, you're the only one here who's surprised. You're deeply loved, by all of us. What's more, you're deeply respected. It's time you understood that."

Vincent leaned his forehead against his father's and nodded.

He pulled back and found Mary at his elbow. She drew him into a tight embrace with bright words of congratulations and a kiss on his cheek.

When she let him go, Edward took his hand. "Well," he said. "You know I wanted to see my boy follow his old da, but you're as fine a choice as they come, my lad." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And don't think you're such a young pup you should let this lot get away with anything. Hearts are all in the right place, but some of 'em don't always think with their heads." He laughed at Vincent's bewildered expression and shuffled away.

Vincent turned to call him back, but he found two faces he couldn't ignore. "William. Pascal. I had no—I'm sorry—"

Pascal waved him off. "Don't apologize. After this afternoon, even I voted for you."

He looked to William, who harrumphed. "Well, I didn't. But that's neither here nor there now." The meal he'd brought to Vincent in his chamber finally made sense, as much apology as concession. William grabbed his hand and pumped it bruisingly. "Congratulations."

Winslow announced himself with a solid slap on Vincent's back, but he addressed William and Pascal. "Did I look this damn stupid when you all voted for me?"

"Stupider," Pascal answered without hesitation. He looked in no way apologetic when the bigger man cuffed his shoulder roughly.

Winslow pulled Vincent into a bear hug and pounded his back. "Welcome aboard. Can't wait to see even your patience get tested by this job."

When Winslow released him, Pascal shook Vincent's hand and pulled him into a one-armed embrace. "Congratulations," he said. "No one better for the job. Yours is the truest voice I know."

Vincent pulled back with a hand on Pascal's shoulder, silent acknowledgement of how much those words meant; Pascal nodded slightly before stepping out of the way. It was then that Vincent realized how many expectant faces were watching him from all around the chamber, waiting for him to speak. The weight of their collected confidence settled on him, but he could feel the strength of their affection, too. It humbled and bolstered him in the same moment.

"I don't have any words prepared," he told them all by way of apology. "But it seems I'm the only one who's surprised by your decision." A few smiles met this. "I'm deeply honored by your faith in me. I'm deeply touched." So many souls packed so closely together, he felt their love as a warm hum deep in his breast. It arced haphazard and unfocused around the chamber, but he felt himself enveloped in it, cushioned against the darkness, held fast and steady. That some part of him reached out into that life-giving goodwill and found something missing, yearned for something unnamed, left him wretched, ashamed of his own capacity for ingratitude. He steadfastly ignored the aching emptiness that could remain unmoved by and indifferent to such strength of love and devotion, and clung instead to the good that he felt, that tethered him to humanity. "It will be my mission to be worthy of that faith, to serve you as well as you have always served me. Thank you, all."

Gentle applause accompanied him as he resumed his seat. Father stood and cleared his throat, and the gesture quickly earned everyone's attention. Vincent sat back in his chair to watch and to listen, but his mind wandered. He had learned as a boy that the natural slant of his eyes gave him the appearance of deep focus, even if in truth he was traveling by raft down the Mississippi or struggling to survive the perils of an uncharted island. He had cultivated this trait and learned to divide his attention, to have some part of his mind always scanning the goings on around him so that he wouldn't be caught entirely unawares if the conversation shifted to something more salient.

He passed the majority of the common meeting this way, absently noting how the chamber slowly began to empty as the most important topics to the community were aired and argued and put to rest in one fashion or another. With the holidays past and spring yet some weeks away, there seemed little fire in anyone over the current state of things or over future endeavors. It was that way every winter, even if there was little evidence of any given season in the stone around them.

When it became politely possible, he made his farewells and retreated to his own chamber, finding comfort in the slow methodology of his cartography. The pipes had long been silent save for the tap of each hour with its implicit _all's well_ before he found any satisfaction in his progress for the day.

A bundle of rolled pages tucked carefully under one arm, Vincent carried the maps that he had been able to complete or that had needed no work back to Father's chamber, which was now dim and silent with the lateness of the hours. Father was still up, bent over his desk by the light of an oil lamp, his glasses fallen halfway down his nose. He glanced up from his writing, and Vincent nodded silently as he crossed the chamber.

With the last of the maps away, Vincent contemplated the drawers. With the population growing and the living arrangements becoming ever more complex, the maps seemed to copulate and produce offspring like the proverbial rabbit. And like virtually everything in Father's study—save the community's medical records—the maps had a haphazard sort of organization, a rough outline of order with more exceptions than rules that worked mainly because there were enough people who knew the locations of the maps as well as they knew the tunnels themselves. But that was hardly good practice. Perhaps he'd suggest to Father that a clear system be developed, something less intricate than Dewey Decimal or Library of Congress, but still orderly and usable. A standardized set of letters for each map type might be a place to start, unless it would be easier to organize everything by the portion of tunnels charted? But what of maps that covered several specific sections, such as their aqueduct charts, which had always been a horse of a different color, with coding for seasonal weak points, flood zones, and potential repair/construction hazards. No, they would almost certainly do better to organize by map type and try to coordinate the sections, perhaps by color coding or—

"Well, Vincent?"

Father's expectant, baiting tone brought his thoughts to an abrupt halt, and he turned toward the desk. "Well?" he echoed curiously.

Father grabbed his cane and pushed himself up to his feet before he elaborated. "Well, are the two of us speaking?"

The question confounded him, and he pulled the other half of his mind away from possible organizational methodologies to give the conversation most of his attention. "I don't recall arguing, Father."

The elder man snorted as he stumped around his desk and into the middle of the chamber. "You didn't want the position on the Council."

"I didn't feel it could be justified," Vincent corrected.

"Mm. And now?"

"And now I have a greater obligation to those that I love, to earn the trust they've put in me."

"Vincent, I think perhaps you've rather missed the point of your own speech this afternoon."

Vincent cast back to the words he'd spoken in this chamber a few hours before, but as they nearly all orbited his lack of suitability for the position in question, he could find nothing to misinterpret, and he only shook his head.

Father's eyes took on the same gleeful luster he had when he thought he might have a chance at winning a game of chess. It was a spirited, youthful happiness that Vincent enjoyed seeing in his father, so much so that he'd occasionally considered throwing a game on purpose just to feed that spark. One of these days, he might actually do it, too; his winning streaks had begun to extend beyond merely embarrassingly long.

"You told us today that no vote could change what you are to us. And so it hasn't. It mustn't. Today, the community voted for who you have always been and what you have always done."

The vague ideas of cartographic organization still at the back of Vincent's mind evaporated like breath on a mirror. He looked down at his empty hands, finding no convenient dalliance to occupy them. "And what is it that they've voted for, Father? What am I? How can I believe that they understand when even I do not?"

"Vincent, this new preoccupation with what you are or are not will gain you nothing but heartache."

"This preoccupation, as you call it, is hardly new," Vincent returned. "It is at the center of everything, every question I have about where I come from, how I could…do what I have done, what more I might be capable of in the future."

Father stepped in front of him and rested both of his hands over top of his cane to square his shoulders and meet his son's eye. "You are my son, Vincent." He tutted away Vincent's dismissive scoff. "You are my son, and that is all any of us has ever needed to know of your origins. Now I know that isn't the answer you want, but it's the answer that we have, and what we _do_ have, what we _do_ know, is all that we can live by. There's enough that is not possible. Let us not deny ourselves what _is_ possible."

"Not possible because of what I am."

Vincent saw the hurt flash through the gray of his father's eyes, but neither man knew how to be cowed by the truth; Father nodded sadly and spoke plainly. "Yes."

And that was that, the baldness of everything laid out between them. Something in Vincent rebelled, cried out in wordless denial like a wounded animal denying its own mortality, even as life seeped away in red, salty rivulets. With a practiced, weary thought, he suppressed that base instinct and brought himself back to tightrope equilibrium.

"It's been a very strange day. I think I'll go to bed," he said.

Father nodded, and it was understood that _going to bed_ meant prowling the quiet places of their underground world in an effort to soothe his mind and his heart. "Good night, then, Vincent. Sleep well."

"And you, Father. Good night."

Rounds of the innermost chambers proved that everyone within slept soundly, safe from the winter and the dangers Above. As he spiraled out and away from the central living spaces, he began to hear the occasional tap of a sentry, reporting that all was quiet. Vincent passed through the Chamber of the Falls and paused, but the rush of the water felt entirely too desolate tonight, so he moved on, pleased with the secure stillness he found in every twist and passage, but dissatisfied with the stark silence all the same. The Whispering Gallery, then. He stepped out onto the bridge to find one of the magic places, a focal point for a hundred disparate sounds and voices. These were old, steadfast friends, who spoke to him and soothed his fretful mind and yet never asked anything of him. His silence—he himself—fit into these whispers from Above so easily, letting them eddy and flow and float around him.

It was the same way that Devin had always been so ready to assume Vincent in his life without demands, without expectations. This place often reminded Vincent of his brother, the memories as fond as they were heartsick. Growing up together, they had argued and rassled and called each other names, but it was all all right, because each always expected the other in the same way that they expected to find books in Father's chamber and wind beyond the doors of the Great Hall. Perhaps that was why, even fifteen years later, Vincent found himself still expecting to hear that familiar crack of laughter, that volatile, beloved voice swinging from taunting to pained to exuberant, nestled in amongst the voices Above, perhaps bracketing and commanding them. This had always been one of Devin's favorite places, and the one with enough magic in it to have captured some vital essence of that vibrant youth.

Sometimes—often—Vincent imagined his adoptive brother's reactions to events Below. For so much of his childhood, Devin had been his confidante, his partner in all things, so that his voice _still_ whispered in his ear, saying so much that Vincent had never dared to. These, the changes made today, Devin would no doubt take as some great joke, laughing at Vincent's discomfort, finding some deeply unsettling way to tease and prod. Unlike so many others in his world, Devin had continually surprised Vincent, both with his blade-sharp understanding of things left unsaid and his obtuse, thick-skulled incomprehension of the same, at other, apparently selective times. Inconstant, impatient, entirely uncontainable—utterly unsuited to life nestled within the earth. Caged.

What it was, exactly, that brought Devin to mind so strongly on this night, Vincent had no idea, but then, his brother came and went from his thoughts at his own behest, as he always had. For fifteen years, Vincent had roamed the quiet places Below on his own, searching the dark, still caverns, finding peace as much as torment in the depths he plumbed, charted, _knew_, and never any remains of a teenaged boy within three days' travel of the home chambers. There was always the Abyss, of course, but the stone and the dark felt so completely contrary to his memory of Devin: bright, brash, unsettled. He would have gone _up_. He _must_ have gone up. To the bright lights of the city. Photophilic. Vincent still imagined that Devin must be out there, somewhere, laughing his way through the grand adventures they'd enacted as children in cardboard armor. Some days, he was absolutely _sure_—

Well, whatever the case, Vincent found solace among the voices, among the memories. Between the echoes from Above and the ghosts of his childhood, he had never felt alone on this desolate bridge. Companionship without expectation—it was a fine notion, even if it was simply one more illusion. He sighed gratefully into the vast emptiness all around him. It was enough.

_Walls_

_God made a garden, it was men built walls;_

_But the wide sea from men is wholly freed;_

_Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,_

_Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,_

_Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sake_

_And none hath profit of the brown sea-weed,_

_But all things give themselves, yet none may take._

_-Eva Gore-Booth_


End file.
